Last One Standing
by 42-Sporks
Summary: PostDT. The Winchester brothers learn the hard way that the war between good and evil has only just begun, giving rise to new allies, new enemies, and truths no one should have to face.
1. Prologue

Summary: Post-Devil's Trap. The Winchester brothers learn the hard way that the rules of the game have changed. The war between good and evil has only just begun, giving rise to new allies, new enemies, and truths no one should have to face alone.

Rating: T for violence, language, and mature themes. May fluctuate as the story continues.

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing attempt meant for entertainment purposes only.

Author's Notes:Just so we're all clear right from the get-go - I ascribe to the belief that the accident did happen. By making it a vision, the writer's are cheating the audience out of a very tantalizing plot,one where lives could be lost. If you've ever read Stephen King's _Misery_ you know what I mean when I say cheating, although, I'm not going to cut off your foot if you don't.  
I'm not a doctor by any means. My grasp of medicine is primitive, so forgive my ignorance.  
I don't know how long this will continue for. I have a couple of story ideas planned for it, so bear with me. Enjoy the prologue nonetheless.  
Title is subject to change.

* * *

"Show me what it's like to be the last one standing.  
And teach me wrong from right,  
And I'll show you what I can be.  
And say it for me, say it to me,  
And I'll leave this life behind me.  
Say it if it's worth saving me."  
-Nickelback, "Savin' Me"

* * *

Last One Standing

Prologue

For Sam Winchester, the dream always began in the same way. Darkness descended upon his consciousness, mute and impenetrable, only yielding to a flash of light far off in the distant realms of his mind. Pain followed, burning like an ember against his sinuses; so fierce his eyes watered and his body conceded to its might, fearful that not doing so would cause his skull to split in two.

Senselessness overcame him, and suddenly the pain was gone, replaced with a complacency that usually accompanied the transition into his position as an innocent bystander. He was alone in the long grass of a field, allowing his fingers to trail over the spiny heads of grain as he walked through it. To what, he didn't know. He never knew. All he knew was that after a few steps voices would flood into his consciousness; thousands of voices. Each one a different frequecy and timbre blending together into one frightening sound the whispered through the night.

The wind picked up and he could feel its chilld on the back of his neck, passing through his hair. He could sense eyes upon him immediately, the years of his father's training never far behind in the darkness.

"I can see you..." a voice hissed.

Sam's blood ran cold and he turned around cautiously to face whoever lingered in the dark.

Pale moonlight cascaded upon he and the woman. She was old, staggering through the grass with her joints cracking and creaking underneath her grotesquely hunched spine. A black velvet cloak covered her from head to toe, revealing only two locks of her silver hair that gleamed as brightly as the moon itself as they danced on the wind.

Her spindly fingers clutched a single pocketwatch, holding it at arm's length to get a good look at it. Beneath the cloak, Sam sensed her smiling coldly, as she replaced the watch in her pocket.

"Is it done?" she asked, several of her many voices cracking with the question.

It was then that another voice filled the air, this time deeper and gutteral. Sam couldn't see anyone or anything else in the field, but the second voice filled his ears with a throaty growl, speaking in tongues he couldn't understand.

The woman laughed. "You underestimate them."

"I underestimate no one," the darker voice answered, this time in a language Sam could understand. He had learned Latin when he was a child by order of his father. The wind became fierce and biting, lashing out at both he and the woman. "You did not keep your end of the bargain."

Another laugh, this time more heartily than the first. The woman was mocking this voice. "Keeping the Order at bay was not a part of the deal. Your powerlessness against them makes you weak."

"And your fear of them makes you ignorant," the voice snapped, swooping down upon the woman like a feral demon from one of Sam's less prophetic nightmares. Now there was another figure, this time nothing more than a shadow in the field, and he stood only two feet from the woman.

Sam caught the smell of smoke. His eyes watered. A rush of panic ran through his body as he realized that the grass had caught flame underneath the shadow's feet.

He took a step back. He knew the shadow now.

The fires licked at the woman's robe but did not burn. She backed away from him, body crackling as she did. "My fears are for my own protection."

The scene flickered like lightning again. Sam felt himself falling through time and space, appearing at last in a lavishly decorated sitting room. A fire raged on in the hearth, much too large for the space it had been started in. The wind swept in through the open windows, bringing bucketloads of rain with it.

A woman tripped over the carpet, falling face first into the floor. Her whole body was soaked, leaving her thin and flimsy clothing pasted to her body. She reached out for the fireplace, fingertips several inches from anything that could be used as a weapon.

The stoker flew from its cast iron stand, just making it into her waiting fingertips when a booted foot slammed down on her wrist. The bone cracked when it hit the floor. The woman screamed, drawing herself into a ball.

The man had his back to Sam. He twisted his foot down on her broken joint harder making the woman scream again.

"I DIDN'T DO IT!" she screamed with tears in her eyes, pleading with her attacker. "I SWEAR TO GOD!"

He kicked her in the stomach. Sam winced. He could hear another bone crack from the blow. The woman keeled over, gasping for breath.

The man stepped away from her and moved into the darkness, leaving the woman whimpering softly by the fire. She lifted her head just as the man re-emerged.

Fire glinted against cold steel. The woman's eyes widened at the sight of the blade. She shifted weakly across the floor, not nearly as fast as she should of. The man grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head back.

Her scream was cut short. The man slashed her neck so quickly the movement was a blur. Blood bubbled from the long incision in her throat, spilling down her chest.

The man threw her to the floor. "That was for Dad," he said.

By that time the vision was already fading, and Sam felt the familiar grip of consciousness capture him, dragging him upwards into awareness.

He gasped, eyes wide. Bright light assaulted his senses and he was in agony. Everything hurt. Blood spilled from nearly every oriface on his face, choking him. He pitched forward, spluttering, only to be restrained by strong hands.

"He's conscious."

"Hey, sweetheart, you with me?" a female voice asked. His eyelid was pried open again and more light streamed in.

"Pupil's blown."

"Dean..." he coughed, drowning in his own blood. "Dean?"

They were digging through his pockets now. He tried to shift away but was pinned down again by more hands. _Where the hell did all these people come from_? He thought with a groan. Better yet, where was Dean and his dad? Hadn't they been with him when...when...

His mind was drawing a blank. He couldn't remember.

Forgetting all about the pain in his head, Sam started to struggle with the hands that held him down. "DEAN!" he shouted, searching through the crowded place frantically. Red, white and blue lights danced in his vision as police and paramedics swarmed the scene of a horrific car accident.

"Hey, hey, take it easy hun..." the woman was back; that damn, patronizing woman who seemed convinced he was four instead of twenty-two. "You took a nasty blow to the head there sweetie. You gotta lay down and let us do our job and get you better, okay?"

Dean would have punched her in the face by now. But Dean still wasn't there.

"Where's my brother?" he asked, fighting against the pain that seemed all over now. Sitting up wasn't helping much either. The world was spinning and he was along for the ride.

"You've gotta lay down right now."

"I want to know where my brother is," he said, wincing from the growing pain between his eyes. _Oh God, not now_, he tried to stay focused. Dean. He had to find Dean.

"Sir, you're gonna have to lie down," a male paramedic attempted to get him horizontal, but Sam resisted, shifting anxiously to get a better look through the crowd. "Sir..."

Through the mess of people, Sam could just barely make out another gurney being lead away in the darkness. He squinted, his vision unfocused and churning like a child smearing fingerpaints. He caught a glance, but the body faded quickly from view, blocked out by yet another paramedic. "Dean?" he called, as if his brother could hear him. "DEAN!"

"Get some restraints on him!" the man said, pushing Sam down by the shoulders. "You're going to be alright, son, okay? You're going to be alright..."

His voice was fading. Pain exploded alongSam's sinuses. The lights around him started to blur, flickering like electricity.

The woman in his nightmare screamed long and hard into the night as Sam passed out.

And then the vision began again.

* * *

Constructive criticism and compliments are always appreciated. Flames are ignored to the highest degree. Even if you don't review - thanks for reading! 


	2. A Lot to Take In

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter One: A Lot to Take In

"Dude - you seriously have to cut your hair."

Fingers trailed over his scalp in a more clinical, exploratory nature than a comforting one. Sam Winchester felt like he was undergoing another mandatory lice check,the ones he had to sit through in elementary school. For a while, he entertained the notion, allowing what little consciousness he had to drift back through the recesses of time. But his temporary travel through the space time continuum was cut short abruptly when he rememebered he was twenty-two.

And that it was Dean who was talking to him.

"I mean, come on Sammy, this shag is more 'mullet rock' than my music will ever be."

"It's Sam..."

The conversation came to a crashing halt. The voice was quiet, but unmistakable. Sam was waking up.

Resting on his side, Sam was a little taken aback by how blurry everything was. Rubbing his eyes didn't seem to help. On the contrary, any sort of movement caused his fresh bruises and lacerations to ache and sting. He stifled a groan, shifting uncomfortably on the hospital bed. The decision was immediately regretted, however, when his head started to throb and the world started spinning all over again. Pain radiated outward from his chest, responding to every breath with fresh waves of agony, which only made his head spin more.

"Whoa, hold on there tiger..." Dean said, placing a restraining hand on his brother's shoulder. "Sam? You still with me man?"

"Yeah..." Sam took a shallow breath, waiting for the waves of pain to pass. The tightening in his chest started to fade and eventually, so did the throbbing in his skull. His hand drifted away from the bridge of his nose gradually as the pain receded.

Blinking, he took another look around. Even in the dim light above his bed, Sam knew he was in a hospital. The powder blue walls surrounding him promoted an air of calm. A heart monitor droned from his right while an IV hung on his left, feeding God-only-knows-what into his veins. Bandages covered him from his waist to his pectorals as well as his left hand and wrist.

"Where are we?"

Dean's eyes narrowed in confusion. Sam looked pretty coherent, all things considered, and the question had caught him off guard. "How hard did you hit your head, dude?"

"I mean what city are we in? What town?"

"Dunno."

Sam gave his brother a questioning look. "You don't know where we are?"

"No. Should I?"

"Dean...how did we get here? What happened?" he was wide awake now, on the verge of having a panic attack. He had no recollection of ever being admitted. Prior to waking up in the hospital, the brothers had been in a Iowa farmhouse, several miles from civilization and definitely uninjured. However, the memories before and after were bridged only with darkness.

"Take it easy, Sammy," his brother said, placing a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I don't know any more than you do, okay? I've been in this room for over an hour waiting for you to wake your sorry ass up."

"And there hasn't been a doctor in here at all? I mean..." Sam's mind was moving a hundred miles a minute. None of it made sense. "Where's Dad? Wasn't he in the car with us when we...when we..."

His voice trailed off and Sam found himself wandering through the darkness of his memory again. He shot a glance back at Dean, finding his brother seated quite comfortably in the chair, arms crossed over his chest. His clothes and hair were cleaner than Sam remebered them ever being before. They lacked the resources to have an official laundry day, so most of the time their clothes were well worn. But not this time. Dean looked like he was wearing a whole new wardrobe. Not to mention the obvious lack of physical injury. Sam felt like he had just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, and probably looked the same way. Dean, on the other hand, was outwardly healthy. The dark circles around his eyes had vanished, as had several more prominent scars on the boy's body.

"Something wrong, Sammy?" Dean asked, eyebrows lowered in confusion. Sam's stare was so intense by that point it was digging holes straight through him.

"Well, yeah, something's wrong. I mean...we don't even know how we got here, wherever here is."

"Ambulance probably drove us over."

"And you just woke up in the chair next to me?" Sam lifted himself up onto his elbows. No matter how stubborn Dean was, rationality would usually win him over. Sam just hoped that today was one of those days.

"I'm going to go find your doctor," Dean said with a nod. Sam stared at him, shell shocked from the oddness of his brother's behaviour. He sank back down on the bed, barely glancing up as his brother's silhouette disappeared from view.

Sam played with the tube of his IV line, attempting to square with reality and remember the events that landed him there. He could remember that small farmhouse - the smell of dead wood had stung his nostrils almost as painfully as the antiseptic clinging to the walls of the hospital room. He remembered the way it made him feel, both frightened and powerful all in the same instant. Upon entering, the memory became hazy again, filled with the guttural sounds of screaming and gunshots. He flinched visibly out of both surprise and pain. Recalling the torment of those moments was bringing his headache back ten fold and whatever was in the IV wasn't helping much.

The next thing he knew he was in the driver's seat of the Impala. The smell of blood was so thick he could taste it on his tongue, but when he racked his brain for a reason why it was there the fogs descended again, and he was propelled forward in time to Dean's half-baked statement about his hair.

His hand moved reflexively to his head at the last thought and he was about to run his fingers through his hair when they brushed over the coarse threads of sutures. Probing the wound stung, but Sam couldn't help it. He was curious about his injuries, and Dean hadn't provided him with many answers regarding them. Wincing as he did so, he traced the gash from his right temple all to his cheek. It was heavily bruised, and more than likely the injury was a result of a trauma with a blunt object. The skin has litterally split open.

He shivered at the thought, but wasn't given a lot of time to contemplate it. Soft voices filtered into the room from the hallway as footsteps marched in his direction.

"He's been unconscious since he was brought in, though the paramedics insist he had several moment of lucidity not long after their arrival on the scene."

Fighting a bought of vertigo, Sam propped himself on his elbows again just as two figures appeared in the doorway of his hospital room. The first was the doctor, a tall willowy man pushing fifty with more forehead than hair. What little hair he had left was as white as the bandages on Sam's torso.

The other was shorter and heavier set - definitely not Dean Winchester.

"Oh my gosh...you're awake," the doctor fiddled with his spectacles, in complete shock over Sam's condition. He set down his charts on the chair formerly occupied by Dean and immediately leapt at the chance to examine Sam. "Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?"

He tilted Sam's head back, pulling open his eyes. No introduction, no words of comfort, just the usual poking and prodding. Sam shot a frantic look to the figure at the door, searching for some kind of reprieve from his examination.

"Doctor, would you stop smothering that boy before he changes his mind and goes back the way he came?" the shorter figure stepped into the room as the doctor pulled away, shaking his hands in embarrassment. Sam turned his head and smiled softly at who he found there.

"Hey Sam," Missouri Mosely said with a toothy grin. "Got yourself banged up there pretty bad." She lifted his head slightly with her fingers, inspecting the wounds the lined his face.

"Nothing that won't clear up though," she smiled again, but this time it was a melancholic twitch of her lips, nothing like the usual, chipper demeanor Missouri was so famous for.

He tried to smile back, but couldn't manage it. Something about her behaviour bothered him. Knowing that badgering her about it now would do nothing, Sam directed his attention to the doctor.

"How am I doing, Doctor...?"

"Doctor Hutchison," he said with a matter-of-fact nod. "Pardon my excitement. I'm just very happy to be standing here, talking to you, all things considered."

"All things...?" Sam asked, venturing a guess that those things weren't good.

"Well the accident was terrible to say the least. I doubt very much any of the car will be salvaged after what happened."

"What did happen?" he inquired casually.

"According to the policeit was a semi against an Impala - hardly a fair fight to begin with. Luckily, you were on the opposite side of the car, avoiding the majority of the impact, though your head and your ribs would beg to differ. You sustained a pretty hefty concussion and bruised almost your entire left side, which in itself is a miracle. The police say the truck was moving at about forty miles and hour. You've a very sturdy bone structure for someone so lean. Usually, they peel boys like you off the windows after an accident like that."

"Jesus..." Sam commented quietly. Dean should be counting his lucky stars that he wasn't injured.

"My thoughts exactly," the doctor commented in agreement.

Sam was silent for a moment, reflecting on what he had just been told. After a moment of deep breathing, he found the nerve to ask the doctor a nagging question. "Where's my dad?"

The doctor sighed. A rush of panic ran through Sam. Doctors sighing was never a good sign. It meant they were thinking about all the euphemisms for 'dead' or 'dying'.

"Your father sustained the worst of the blow, I'm afraid. He is uh..."

There was a beat. Sam's jaw tightened as he waited for the doctor to spit out the diagnosis.

The doctor hung his head for a moment, and then lifted it up again.

"Your father is in a coma, Sam, and -I'm not going to lie -he may never wake up."

Sam's whole body went numb. He sank within himself, unable to feel anything at that particular moment besides the sharp chill that had overtaken his slender form. It was like being punched in the gut or hit with a crowbar. His eyes moved to the walls, finding that the powder blue colour still failed to calm him down. His heart felt like it was in his throat and try as he might, he couldn't swallow it back to where it belonged.

He may never wake up.

Sam's eyes burned. He brushed the tears away with his good hand.

"I'm very sorry, Sam," Doctor Hutchison said, shaking his head with sorrow. "I know that this is a lot to take in."

_You have no idea_, Sam wanted to say, but was afraid that the next time he opened his mouth only his inner organs would spill out. His bottom lip quivered and he turned away from the scrutenizing eyes of the doctor and Missouri. , his father's voice warned him in his mind. The words only made him even more miserable. 

The doctor grunted, trying to do anything that would break the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them. "There are some uh...tests I have to run," he began, just as Missouri shot him a look. "When you're ready, of course."

Sam nodded, mutely. He didn't feel like talking anymore. He just wished they would go away and Dean would be back. Maybe then it wouldn't feel like the silence was eating him alive.

"I think I just wanna be alone for a while," he said quietly. The doctor was about to object. Missouri just nodded in understanding and looked to Hutchison.

"Okay, honey. I'll just be out in the hallway if you need anything," she cast another sympathetic glance in his direction.

"There's a call button on the bed rail," the doctor said. "Press it if you need anything."

Sam couldn't even move. He could feel the tears building up in his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks. The last thing he needed was for Missouri and the doctor to see him crying like an infant.

"Missouri?" he asked softly.

She turned. "Yeah, Sam?"

"When you see Dean, send him back here, okay?"

Missouri was silent, and when Sam found the resolve to finally look at her he found that the colour had drained from her face. She bore the expression of a woman who had just seen a ghost.

"What?" Sam asked, his heart skipping a beat.

"Dean, honey?"

"Yeah, Dean," Usually he wouldn't be so curt with Missouri, but the recent news about his father had killed the last of his patience. He wanted Dean. Dean would know what to do.

Missouri was speechless. Doctor Hutchison took the liberty of answering for her.

"Um...Sam..." he was playing with his spectacles. "Dean - he was the other gentleman in the car with you?"

Sam couldn't even move. The doctor had visibly paled as well.

He didn't have to be a mind reader to know that the expressions he was regarded with were infamously bad.

"What?" he demanded. "What's wrong with Dean?"

"I think you need to calm down..." the doctor said.

"I think you need to tell me where my brother is," Sam snapped, sitting up a little too quickly. Bruised ribs stung and every breath was sharp from the pain, but he held himself upright, pulling himself together. His head was spinning, but it wasn't just the altitude - nothing was making any sense. Dad couldn't be in a coma. He was the strongest of them all. He would storm into the room any minute now and demand to see his boys. And Dean? Dean had just left the room looking better than he ever had before. He would be back in a minute with two cups of coffee and quick retort for both the Doctor and Missouri.

His headache came back with a vengeance. Wincing against the pain, he reiterated his question. "Where's Dean?"

The doctor sighed. Sam's blood turned icy cold and his insides were tightening again. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He could just stare in horror as the doctor confirmed the fears twisting his insides.

"Dean was brought in here last night with severe trauma to his head and torso," the doctor said. "And as far as I know, he's been nearly comatose in the Intensive Care since he got out of surgery last night."

* * *

**Author's Notes**  
Okay, once again my knowledge of medicine is primitive to say the least. However, I have tried my hardest to make this even somewhat accurate. I'm sorry if there are any pre-med or real train physician reading this and shaking their heads at me.  
I really like Missouri's character.I think it's a shame theydidn't have her return in the first season, so I brought her back as an acting medical proxy.Sam's going to need all the help hecan get right about now.  
And I do realize there's a lot of unanswered questions about the car. Let me assure you that the answers are coming.  
A special thank you to all those who reviewed the Prologue - **lilsurfnchik25**, **McB**, **Spuffyshipper**, **M.Kena**, **daisymaygirll**, **melja**, **Moonfairyhime**, **PaloAlto**, and **Dreema Azaleia Wingblade. **Usually I write individual responses, but there was just such an overwhelming concensus that I continue writing that I figure I would just say thank you very, very much for your support. I can promise you that I _love_ both the Winchester boys, but for the sake of keeping you on the edge of your seats, I make no promises as to who lives and dies in this story. 


	3. Breathless

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Two: Breathless

Sam felt the world come to a crashing halt. The wall clock stopped ticking; the heart monitor stopped beeping. The only thing that remained was the waves of pain rippling throughout his body, and even they seemed to slow as he tried to comprehend what had just been said.

He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out but empty air. His words were stunted by the lump in his throat. The only syllable he managed to utter was, "No," followed by a painful gasp for breath a second later. Oxygen trickled down his throat but didn't seem to make it into his lungs.

He had been numb when the doctor told him about his father. Now he was dying. The slightest movement threatened to upset the delicate balance of the universe and rip his brother from the world. Dark spots danced around his vision, threatening to drag him back into unconsciousness. "No, that's not possible," he muttered, rubbing his eyes as his headache returned. "He was just here. I just...I just saw him."

His sinuses were on fire. Doctor Hutchison made his way over to the bed quickly.

"You need to lie down, Sam," he said. In his pain induced haze, Sam's body conceded to any slight pressure.

Still, he found enough of a voice to protest. "No, no, I need to see him."

"Sam, honey, I know how much you want to see your brother but I think it's best that you listen to the doctor on this one," Missouri said, acting as the voice of reason.

"He was here," Sam insisted, lashing out against the agony he was in. "He was right here."

"I know it seems like he was here..." Hutchison began, only to be interrupted a moment later.

"Jesus, this isn't the concussion talking!" he shot a look over at Missouri, silently daring her to read his mind. _Come on_, he willed her. _You know I'm not lying._ _Now tell him that!_

"Your body has been through hell, Sam, absolute hell," Hutchison was attempting to reason with the young man's fragile grip of reality, finding it quite difficult. Sam was frantically clinging to the only things he knew beyond any shadow of doubt to be true. Dean was a fortress. He was rock hard and fortified, standing strong against even the worst physical injury. It was Sam who was forced to hang on for just one more day even though his fingers were slipping. "I know what kind of a shock this must be to you, but you have to calm down."

Sam spilled onto the gurney, trying to pay attention to the doctor's voice. He had nothing left. Missouri's face was blurring from focus and the blue walls were circling his vision in vortexes. Hutchison's murmurs for him to slow his breathing and deepen shifted his body from panic mode into something more docile. At first, he closed his eyes so tightly tears spilled down his cheeks. He was dazed, looking like a fish out of water. Eternity came and went before the pain started to fade and he found he could breathe again.

"Slow..." the doctor said softly, running a hand down his arm. "Just take it nice and slow."

The young man's chest quivered with the rise and fall of every breath. His muscles felt tight, like the bones of corset, but he kept refilling his lungs with air. Eventually, his gasping evened out and faded under the sounds of the heart monitor.

The world had resumed spinning, and Sam was mumbling something under his breath.

"What was that?" the doctor asked, flustered from the recent attack.

"I want to see him," Sam said, finding his voice at last.

"Later," Hutchison patted him on the shoulder. "Right now you rest. "

"No," he shook his head, eyes still closed. "Now."

"You're in no condition to move. Intensive Care is two floors down and the last thing we need is you dying of asphyxia," Hutchison sighed. "Get some sleep for now and judging by how the rest of the day goes, I'll take you to see your brother tonight."

"You'll tell me if his condition changes?" Sam asked. He knew the doctor would say yes, but he just needed some kind of affirmation that he still had some control over his life.

"I can go sit with him, Sam," Missouri replied softly. Sam was thankful she had offered. He really didn't want anyone around at the moment.

"I'll have a tray sent up with lunch if you think you're up to it?"

The doctor only received a nod in response. Sam was beyond talking. If the world had kept on spinning it meant nothing had changed. Somewhere in the hospital, the last of his family were on their last legs as he wallowed in the throes of weakness just to take another breath. He felt pathetic. He felt useless. He felt left behind.

Missouri ran her hand over his face one more time before leaving. Sam waited until he heard the footsteps leave the room and the door hiss shut behind them. Only then did he turn onto his good side, bury his face into his pillow, and wept.

* * *

The rain was coming down in buckets that night. Lightning crackled in the distance as thunder boomed overhead, shaking the ancient foundations of the vast mansion he was standing near. He could feel the cold chill of the wind as it swept past him, circling off in the empty fields around the home. Leaves rustled from the forest beyond, sending shivers up his spine. Each sway of the trees sent shivers down his spine.

Against his better judgment, he made his way slowly up the steps to the front door of the home. It hung slightly ajar and was tossed around mercilessly by the storm. Reaching his hand out he steadied both it and himself before entering.

The home was well furnished. Mahogany floorboards were waxed to a point where they were practically mirrors. He stared down at the makings of his reflection, squinting against the golden light gleaming brightly. Ahead lay a hallway leading to a well kept kitchen. A staircase ran the length of the right wall, decorated with old family photographs.

But it was the open arched doorway to his left that caught his attention first. He heard the dull thud of a body striking the floor, followed by a small scream. Heavy footsteps paced restlessly like a hunter waiting to go in for the kill. Sam held his ground at first, but was again lead into the room and watched in horror as a brown haired woman struggled against her attacker.

_No_, he thought to himself. _Attackers. There are two men in the room_.

He hadn't noticed it before. All the other visions made it seem like only one man had been present for the kill. The change of perspective clearly showed that while one man made the first attack, a second lingered hesitantly not three feet from where Sam stood in the doorway. The man's hands hovered over his hips, fingers brushing over the hilt of a hunting knife.

"I DIDN'T DO IT! I SWEAR TO GOD!"

A swift kick to the ribs left the woman groaning on the floor, arms held close to her chest. She writhed in obvious agony, tears streaming down her face. Sam felt his insides twist at the thought of being tortured and murdered, especially when it was hardly a fair fight. He stared hard at the woman, trying to remember her features only to found that they were ambiguous. She was a dream woman, meant to be clear at first glance but blur steadily from focus when examined under an eye as scrutenizing as his.

What he could make out, however, was the necklace she wore. Hanging between her breasts was a long silver chain with an equally polished pentacle dangling from it. The thin lines of the pendant were marked with tiny sigils and incantations, words written in a language he couldn't understand.

The first man entered the darkness. The second emerged. The woman's eyes met her attackers and she let out a long cry, reaching frantically for her necklace. Her bloodied hands fumbled on the chain and she made very no attempt to get away. She had accepted her fate.

Sam turned away from the scene, unable to watch, yet the image appeared in his head, a dream within a dream, of blood spilling overtop of the pentacle.

* * *

"Sam?"

A soft voice roused Sam from his restless slumber, but he couldn't bring himself to face the world just yet. His pillow was stale with dried tears and some of the moisture still clung to his face. Self-consciously, he raised a hand and brushed the remainder of it away, hoping he had done so before anyone could notice it was there.

"Sam, I know you're awake. Best just stop pretending and open your eyes."

The voice was so soft anymore. It was insistant. He was going to be waking up right then whether he wanted to or not.

Even without opening his eyes, he knew that there was more light in the room than before. He heard the venetian blind shuffling and soft footsteps move around the bed.

"Is he coming around?" a lurid, female voice asked.

"Yeah, he's coming," the other voice was unmistakable: it was Missouri. "Hurry up, Sleeping Beauty, your lunch is getting cold."

He groaned. The only thing worse than hospital food was Dean's definition of a meal. Yet he would have taken all the greasy burgers in the world if it meant that he was with Dean.

Blinking, he rolled off his side and onto his back. Lingering pain flared to life once more all along his left side and through his skull. He was barely aware of the nurse injecting several liquids into his IV and only realized it when the muscles in his chest relaxed of their own volition. Pain killers tugged softly at his senses, granting him relief from his body's condition.

"That should make you feel better really quickly," the nurse said.

Sam smiled in her general direction, a weak and fleeting indication that he was at peace - for the moment at least. Consciousness seemed to renew all his feelings of hopelessness. On the outside, he was coasting on the high of the pain killers. Inside, he was screaming.

"I've got a tray full of liquids here with your name on it, if you're feeling up to it," the nurse offered.

Sam winced at the thought of eating anything at the moment, but nodded nevertheless. "Thanks," he whispered, lifting himself onto his elbows. He ran his hand along the bed rail, searching for the controls on the bed. After a moment of confusion, the nurse took over. "Let me," she said, finding the buttons without much difficulty. A second later, Sam was sitting straight up, breathing slowly to quell the dizziness the followed.

"Thanks," Sam said under his breath, unable to manage much more. At least he was still breathing.

"Thank you," Missouri added, just in case the nurse didn't hear him.

"Just press the button if you need anything," she replied and then left the room.

Missouri cast an impatient look over her shoulder, making sure the nurse had left the room before she began speaking. "You should have heard the nurses earlier. They were arguing like a group of vultures as to who you was gonna give you your afternoon meds."

She gave him a small, sad smile again. Sam returned it.

"How's Dean?"

The smiled faded. "He's stable," she replied. "Hanging in there. Like your father."

"Has he been awake at all?"

Missouri shook her head. "No," she shook her head, eyes narrowing decisively. "His mind's really strange right now, like it's in two places at once. Most of his thoughts are fixed inward, but..." she shook her head. "It's like he's not really there."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Missouri cut him off. "And I know you saw him this morning."

"So it wasn't a dream," he said, having questioned his sanity since she left the room.

"No, it wasn't. Happens more often than you think, actually. People who have near death experiences often talk about taking a walk outside of their bodies. It's a form of astral projection. When the mind enters a near comatose or comatose state, it's possible for their brain to project an image of them onto the surrounding area."

"He's going to wake up though...right?"

The psychic shook her head. "I'm sorry Sam. I can't tell you that."

Sam was silent, staring at her. Missouri's eyes stared straight through him, reading him like an open book. "We can't just leave him wandering around the hospital for eternity."

"If I knew anything I could do, believe me, I'd do it. The last thing this hospital needs is Dean Winchester as their resident spirit."

He laughed softly at her remark. Dean was irritating enough as a physical being. Having him spend the rest of eternity as an apparition was like handing a chimpanzee a revolver. He'd probably take up permanent placement in the woman's locker room.

"What about the car?" he asked. "I don't remember much."

The psychic nodded mutely. "You were t-boned by a semi ten minutes outside of the city. You're in Des Moines, by the way. I got the call a couple hours after you were admitted and caught the first flight out."

He sighed. "The cops are gonna wanna know about..." he didn't need to finish his statement. Missouri understood what his silence meant. The Winchester's 1967 Impala was stocked full of firearms, fake ID's, credit cards, and cultlike material, not to mention a dead-man-walking. Several months ago, Dean was declared legally dead. No doubt, Missouri was already being asked to answer for the inconsistancy in the medical records.

"Take it easy, hun, before you give yourself a headache. I'll take care of it," Sam opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off again. "And don't apologize. Your father needs all the help he can get right now."

"Thanks," he said quietly. Missouri nodded in response, shifting in her seat.

"As for the car, I called the impound a earlier. Given the cost to repair the thing, its safe to assume you're just going to have to find a new car."

Dean wasn't going to like that. The Impala was the love of his life. It was a symbol of everything he'd worked to attain in his life - freedom, independance, the ability to pick the music for a change. Their father had controlled the casette player with the ferocity of a drill sargeant. "House rules: Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole," was just a glimpse at the Napoleonic regime he and his brother had grown up in. Dean revered the car because it was not only a method of escape, but of accomplishment. His father had trusted him enough to give him the pride and joy of the Winchester family, the onyl heirloom either brother would ever inherit.

And now it was scrap metal, housed at an impound.

_Could be worse_, Sam thought to himself. _It could be at the police station_. But cars weren't dangerous weapons. The people who owned them were. No doubt the cops were itching to collect his statement.

"Are we under arrest?" he asked softly, paranoid that someone was listening in.

"Actually, no," Missouri replied. "I can't explain it myself Sam, but the car was cleared out by the time the police got on the scene. Anything suspicious had been removed. They don't know a thing about what you were really doing."

His heart skipped a beat. "Cleared out?"

Missouri nodded. "Every gun, every fake ID, every credit card. The only thing left were your clothes and your father's journal. As far as the Iowa boys in blue are concerned your family's about as honest as they come."

"Who would have done that?" Sam asked rhetorically. He knew Missouri didn't have the answers for him, otherwise she would have told him in the beginning. Instead, the psychic just shrugged, shaking her head. He exhaled deeply. That meant that there would be some investigating to do after he got better.

Missouri, who was obviously reading into his thoughts, changed the conversation topic. "You better eat something otherwise your doctor's never going to let you see your brother."

Truth be told, Sam wasn't all that hungry. But the prospect of seeing Dean, mixed with Missouri's 'delicate' coaxing, had him clear the tray within the hour, despite his body's painful protests. By the end of the entire endeavor, he could barely keep his eyes open. Naturally, the second he made the decision to go back to sleep Hutchison returned and requested that they do those tests now. After an hour of scans and interrogations to determine his mental state, Sam was allowed to go back to sleep. Missouri helped him lower the bed again and he was out for another couple of hours.

The dreams returned with a vengeance the second his eyes closed. Frightening images of shadowy creatures floated through his consciousness. Nightmarish figures haunted every corner of his psyche. When he awoke, it was nearly evening. He had broken out in a cold sweat and was gasping for breath, having turned over onto his injured left side.

Growing under his breath, he shifted onto his back, taking small movements to not aggravate his healing wounds. Breathing was an absolute bitch and he found himself in the middle of another attack, one that didn't seem to be letting up so easily. No amount of focus opened his throat and let the air in.

_Come on Sam_, the voice in his head demanded his attention. _Just slow it down. In and out, okay? In and out_.

A year ago, Jessica had convinced him to take a yoga class with her. "It'll be fun," she said. "Besides, you need a way to calm down." She was referring, of course, to his nightmares; the ones that rendered him an insomniac by the time the night was through. He was reluctant at first, even more so when he noticed that he was the only guy in the class, but after one session of doing nothing but breathing, he developed a method of calming himself down after his dreams woke him up.

For some reason, though, the ability eluded him. He wheezed loudly, his whole body shaking from how much pain he was in and how little air he was getting.

_This sucks_, he thought to himself bitterly, and being an expert on how absolutely crappy life could possibly be, he figured it was a fair assessment. It was one thing to have an angry poltergeist strangling the life from you. It was another to have your own rib cage doing it. At least the poltergeist was killable.

The painful attack started to lesson. His sides loosened out of weakness, unable to fight against the agony any longer. Sam took his first breath of air like a starving man.

He thought hard on what Missouri had said earlier. No doubt she was keeping the conversation light in lieu of his condition, though Sam wasn't entirely sure why. Besides the usual aches and pains, he felt alright. His chest was more a problem than his head. However, the fact that she was giving him time to recover before bombarding him with another investigation into the supernatural was appreciated. He had been so used to living without sympathy it was nice to get some for a change.

So Dean was an astral projection? He gave a small laugh at the thought. He wondered if his brother's earlier departure from the room had led straight to the nurse's station down the hall. Funny as the thought was, Sam doubted it. When Dean said he was going to do something, he did it, especially when it came to Sam. He'd carried his baby brother out of a fire and in many ways, never released his grip. He was still carrying his brother out of the worst of the worst, and in the Winchester family, those times were pretty rough. Hunting murderous creatures wasn't the ideal bonding time for other families, but it was the only thing Sam and Dean had left.

Still, something bothered him about his brother's presence, aside from Missouri's morbid uncertainty. What if Dean _never_ woke up? What if he just lay in a hospital bed for the rest of his life? Was Sam stuck with Dean as a guardian angel for the rest of his days?

"No," he said to himself. Dean was going to wake up. And when he did, Sam was going to get him back for the comment about his hair.

His thoughts of retribution were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. It was Hutchison, and by the looks of it, he was there to take Sam to see Dean.

* * *

**Author's Notes**:

I realize that Missouri was being a bit vague in her conversation with Sam, but the kid does have a concussion. I figured she would have gone easy on him because of his head injury and save the hard hitting topics for when he was in a little less pain.

For all the Dean fans out there - plenty more of his character to come! I love his sarcasm and the dynamic he has with his brother, so writing him back in is going to be fun.

**Reviews**:

**_Palo Alto_**: Ah, yes, Missouri. I was really hoping they would bring her back for another episode in season one, but there's no need to complain anymore. Season 2 has been green lighted, and that means plenty of opportunity to write her back in.

Dean definitely has a funny way of showing his affections for his brother. Sometimes his comments are so threatening, but you know it's just the Dean Winchester equivalent of a hug. Much as he dislikes it, I love the 'chick-flick' moments between them, and Dean's reactions to them.

**_Thru Terry's Eyes_**: Ooo...Dean hurt/comfort? I don't know if any hospital can handle him, but I can see what I can do. It's really up to him at this point.

I do research as well for the storylines, but finding out medical treatments is sometimes ambiguous. You have to rely on the patient history and the circumstances of the injury, and sometimes there are just too many things to write it's impossible to focus on the little details. I get lost in the mix. Hopefully, these chapters sounded believable, and I didn't damn my lack of medical intelligence too much.

**_Daisymaygirll_**: I like Sam hurt/comfort too. He's really got that little lost puppy appeal. You just wanna hug him, the poor guy! I haven't read a lot about season 2, but I'm sure Missouri will be making an appearance. Sam's power is definitely growing, and she'll need to be there. Thanks for adding me to your favourites!

**_X5vale_**: Thank you for saying you'll see this through to the end! I can't make any promises about Dean, but just know that I love him just as much as Sam, and even if the worst happens, he's in a good hands.

**_Dreema Azaleia Wingblade_**: Are you still confused? The chapter didn't offer much by way of conversation, but the later ones will. I hope I've eased some of the confusion, but if I haven't, I'm sorry. Mention it in another review, and I'll try and clear it up.

**_Bally2cute_**: I'm going to take your loss of words as a good thing. Thanks very much!

**_Spuffyshipper_**: Not really Sam's psychicness, although it might be. This chapter didn't offer much, but later all will be revealed.

The second season is going to be amazing! I cannot wait! More Sam and Dean! More Missouri! The second I read that it was being renewed I danced around the room.

Then my mother walked in. Not cool.

**_M.Keena_**: Thank you! Hopefully this was soon enough for you!

**_Nate and Jake_**: Sam's had a bit of a rough time. I think he needs a group hug. Either that or more painkillers.

**_Girlofcherries_**: Thank you!

**_MacCartney_**: Dean - YOU WILL NEVER BE RID OF ME SAMMY! NEVER!

I can't imagine a time when he won't be pestering his younger brother. Why should a coma make him any different, lol?

_**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! They really do make a difference when someone's writing a story. This chapter was poster relatively quickly because of the overwhelming feedback! Give yourselves a pat on the back, you're awesome!**_

_**Thanks again!**_

_**Sporks**_


	4. The Sound of Silence

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Three: The Sound of Silence

"You doing okay there, Sam?" the doctor asked as the elevator doors closed in front of them.

_Never ask me that question again_, Sam thought with an audible wheeze. He had learned the hard way that there were more painful actions in the world than sleeping on bruised ribs. Upon arriving, Hutchison had performed a whirlwind of exams most that required more than his usual poking and prodding. He inspected the bandages on Sam's left wrist and removed the boy's catheter. Sam felt what little dignity he had left disappearing and this time there was no mantra that made the situation all better.

It only got worse when the doctor provided him with a robe to wear. Dressing hadn't been a difficult task since he was three. Of course, when he was three, he didn't have a broken body to contend with. After being bedridden for twenty-four hours, the very thought of moving sent shivers down Sam's spine. The slightest twitch of his limbs caused the agony of his ribs and head to resurface. It only got worse when Hutchison offered to have a nurse assist him, an offer Sam refused immediately. He would allow the doctor to check on his condition in any manner of external probing. He consented to have the catheter removed because he wouldn't have been able to do it himself. But he could not and would not have someone help him get dressed, not when he had so little respectability to hold onto at the present time.

Ten minutes later, Sam's face was bright crimson, his chest was in absolute agony, but he was as dressed as he could be in a hospital issue gown, being wheeled down to his brother's room.

He answered Hutchison's question with a shaky nod having only recently rediscovered the ability to breathe and couldn't find the strength to say anything. Hutchison didn't press him. He waited in silence for them to arrive at the second floor.

Sam toyed with his IV line again, unable to meet his reflection in the elevator doors. Even though they were scuffed from both time and wear, he could still make out a blurry impression of himself. A long line of sutures gleamed over bright red flesh on the right side of his face, while the left was marked with several smaller cuts, presumably from where the window had broken. The tips of his fingertips were cracked but healing. He could only imagine what the skin under the bandages looked like.

The robe covered everything else. Hutchison hadn't let him even catch a glance at his chest while he was checking on the bruises, giving Sam the impression he probably didn't want to know what that looked like. A car door would be a merciless opponent against a human being.

"Take a deep breath. There's going to be a bit of a bump when we get off," Hutchison warned. Sam laughed humourlessly, wincing at the notion of breathing any deeper than he was. He gave some credit to Hutchison though. At least the doctor was warning him now.

The elevator doors opened and, sure enough, there was a bump. Sam could feel his bones rattle from it, but he held his breath, found his center, and just waited for it to be over. _Come on, Sam, this is the easy part_.

_Yeah, right_, he scoffed the notion. Never in his life had anything been easy. For the Winchesters there were just varying levels of difficulty, many of which classified themselves as 'suicide-worthy'.

The Intensive Care ward was pristine. White washed walls housed nurses in pastel scrubs wandering between patients' rooms. Soft voices echoed from nondescript conversation at the admitting desk, giving way to the sounds of machines drifting out from the rooms.

Sam turned his attention to the name plates, heart pounding in his head with anticipation. Somewhere in this white nightmare was Dean, hooked up to any number of machine, bleeding out of any number of injuries, completely oblivious to his surroundings. The familiar lump reappeared in his throat at the thought of some figure on a bed, more machine than man.

Doctor Hutchison came to a slow halt. Sam's heart skipped a beat. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he didn't even realize that they were there - standing outside the door marked Dean Winchester.

Through the reinforced windows of the room he could see very little. The lights were kept dim, no more than a single beam of flourescent light shining out from over the bed. It cascaded down onto any number of monitors and tubes, not to mention his brother's rather prominent brow.

"Dean..." he whispered under his breath. Hutchison opened the door and wheeled Sam inside.

It took his mind several moments to register what he was seeing. From the nose and up, it was Dean, face a patchwork quilt of sutures and slashes, courtesy of the window he had been slumped against. Below that there were only a multitude of tubes and bandages. His mouth was taped shut against the thick tube of an intubator and the soft hiss of a respirator acted in sync with the rise and fall of his heavily bandaged chest. Even in the dim light, Sam could make out blood seeping underneath them, not a good sign.

Hutchison stopped at the side of the bed, giving Sam the opportunity to study his brother. Fighting his fatigue, he stood up, shaking slightly from the movement, the pain, and the strength it required. Looking out over the bandages, the tubes, and the monitors, his eyes fell immediately on his brother's face.

He couldn't breathe, but this time, it wasn't from the pain. The sight of Dean injured caused him to freeze entirely. Gripping the bedrail for support, he took another step forward, bringing himself ever closer to his brother's face, all the while allowing his fingers to brush ever so lightly over his brother's prostrate form, a necessary reminder that though it may not look it, Dean was still with him.

_"I bet you're real proud of your kids too, huh?" _Dean spat, his voice echoing throughout the dark recesses of Sam's memory. _"But oh, wait, I forgot: I wasted 'em."_

He was thrown backwards into the moment, the fragments of his memory reassembling themselves. Pinned against the wall of the farmhouse, Sam had an all too perfect view of his brother at the demon's mercy. Apparently, the creature inside his father didn't very much like what Dean had said, for a second later, Dean was screaming.

Sam gasped back into reality. "There was so much blood," he whispered. "So much blood..."

"What was that?" Hutchison asked, allerted immediately by Sam's shortness of breath.

"Nothing," Sam said, shaking his head. "What happened to him? Besides the obvious, I mean."

Not really believing that Sam was alright, but having no resolve to argue with an injured man, Hutchison made himself useful. He procured the chart hanging from the end of the bed and flipped through the pages. Sam couldn't drag his eyes from Dean. Even worse, he could feel another bought of tears coming on. He caught sight of their gleam in the corners of his vision, and he hoped he had enough strength left inside of himself to hold them back till he was in his room again, alone.

"Besides the cuts and lacerations - a severe concussion from when his head struck the window; seven cracked ribs, one broken - which lead to a punctured lung, I'm afraid. And..." Hutchison's eyes narrowed. He was toying with his glasses again, which had Sam more nervous. He was searching for another euphemism.

"What?" Sam asked, tearing his eyes from his brother.

"Well I'm not entirely sure. The cracked ribs aren't consistent with the crash at all," Hutchison placed the chart back on the bed. "He struck the car on his right, dorsal side, but the ribs in question cracked around the sternum."

He approached the bed on the opposite side, running his hand along the length of Dean's chest. He was violating Dean's unspoken 'no touching rule', one that had existed ever since they were children. No hugs, no tickling - just pranks and the occassional fire man's lift, the latter reserved only for hunts. The fact that Dean hadn't responded, sedated or not, was unsettling. He'd seen Dean wake up angrier for a lot less.

"Hmmm..." Hutchison said, going back to the charts. He inspected the findings again, fiddling with his glasses as he did so.

Sam was getting impatient. "What is it?"

"Strange," the doctor replied. "Very strange indeed."

"What?" the younger man asked again. _Try me. Ten bucks says I've seen stranger_.

"According to the findings last night, it would appear as if your brother was the victim of a rare condition I have never witnessed before in my life. The ribs were cracked in such a manner indicative of a forward thrust of the organs in the chest cavity, almost as if something were pushing - or pulling - them outside of his body."

There was a beat. Sam couldn't get his brain to cooperate with all that had been said. He swallowed hard and said, "Excuse me?"

"I'm just making assumptions, but based on the internal damage, I'd say that something tried and failed to rip your brother's heart out last night."

* * *

_This must be what road kill feels like_.

He was too stunned to speak, too stunned to move. He felt like he was being bombarded by a vision again, except that what he saw wasn't in the future and wasn't happening to anyone else. What he saw was in the past and it was happening to Dean.

The movie in his mind was on mute, playing out like a silent picture. There was the demon, his father, pacing the floor like a predator toying with his prey; there was Dean, ever the cocky bastard, toying with him, taunting him. And then there was Sam, the useless wonder, who couldn't manage to shut his brother up even if it meant that they would live for a few more miniutes.

That's when the sound came back to him, along with a bombardment of other, more disturbing sensations. Phantom hands were clamped around his neck and wrists, tightening ever so slowly and then releasing, giving Sam the fleeting impression that he was going to die before backing off once more. His feelings of helplessness were overwhelming as his brother's scream welled up through the mute back drop of the scene. Blood spilled through the pores of his skin, flooding his chest with the crimson liquid before falling in rivers to the floor.

Sam's anger intensified, building up inside his body so much that he felt as if he were going to burst. Every vein was flooded with the thickness of the emotion; the years he had waited for this showdown and his anguish for being so close yet so far away aided only in strengthening his guilt. His mother, Jessica, and now Dean: a holy trinity of failures that he was no more equipped to abate than he was to absolve all guilt over them.

"Sam?" a frantic voice asked, but the voice was faraway now, in a distant realm. Sam could only focus on that instant, that single moment where the world came close to ending forever. Dean was starting to fade under the pain, to slip away. Sam could feel the reaper in the room, thriving in the shadows, just waiting for the final instant when he would whisk Dean away to the next world. _No,_ he had pleaded in his thoughts. _Please no. Take me you bastard! Take me and leave him alone!_

His sights then turned on the colt. The demon had dared him to try and take it, take it with what little power he had. Sam had focused, just as he had in the Max's closet. He focused all his rage, despair, and powerlessness on that one thing, willing it to lift up and fire a bullet straight through the demon's skull. _Come on, damn you, WORK! JUST THIS ONE FUCKING TIME! WORK!_

"Sam!" the voice was a little more insistant now. He couldn't care less. He had to help Dean. He had to stop this, this neverending chaos, this flap of the butterfly's wings.

But the gun just stayed there on the table. And Dean just kept on screaming.

For his father. He screamed for his father. Not for his kid brother who couldn't do anything right to begin with. No, Dean was shouting for John Winchester. Because obviously, a man who was possessed by a demon could do more than a rookie telekinetic any day.

And that's when it happened - the phantom hands released their hold. Sam broke into a run, nabbed the colt off the table, and fired.

"Sam? SAM? Talk to me..."

Someone was shaking him. _No, you're shaking_, Sam's voice of reason notified him. When he returned to his senses he was shivering violently. Cold sweat dripped from his forehead. And God, his head hurt more than it had that morning. He moaned loudly, making a mad grab for the bridge of his nose as Hutchison took him by the shoulders and guided him back to the wheelchair. He was like a puppet - shaped and molded by external influences while the inside was hollow, the internal controller disappearing from existence entirely.

Dropping down into the chair again, the doctor supporting him every inch of the way, Sam felt it all sink in. The showdown with the demon was in the forefront of his mind, followed by the crash, and the realization that this might be it. Dean might die, he father might never wake up, and he would be alone again, standing on two feet that couldn't support the weight their deaths left behind. At least at Stanford their presence was still felt. He knew that somewhere they were still fighting the good fight, ridding the world of evil. But now was different. Now it might just be him, a journal, and an unfulfilled destiny he wanted no part of.

"Tell me what's wrong, Sam," Hutchison urged. "Is it your head?"

He couldn't even manage a response; just another small moan that he was still present in his body, for the most part, and that yes, most of the pain was in his skull just waiting to crack its way out through his temples.

"I'm going to get you something for the pain, alright? I'll be right back..."

The doctor went to stand. Sam grabbed him by the wrist.

"Your son..." he said between winces, "Your son is alive."

The words weren't his own. They were just sounds and syllables floating at random in his consciousness that suddenly threaded together into a coherent statement as the doctor was about to leace. But no matter how random they had been inside his head, the effect they had on Hutchison was astounding. One minute the man had been frantic to get Sam some Tylenol for his headache. The next, he was back on his knees, truly terrified.

"What?" he asked softly, staring deeply into Sam's eyes with the look of a man who had nothing left to live for but whatever words came out of the younger man's mouth next.

"Your son is alive..." Sam said again, feeling his headache lesson as he allowed the words to exist without retalliation. They hung in the air, filling the gap between he and the doctor leaving only the sound of the respirator in its wake. Hutchison searched Sam's eyes for an answer, any sort of explanation for where the statement had come from, but found only a clueless sort of expression, one that made the words even more shocking than before.

Sam breathed slowly as the throbbing faded. Hutchison, however, looked like he was caught in the middle of a panic attack. His mouth hung slightly open and he stared straight through Sam, eyes piercing the wall as well with a question that the younger man didn't have an answer for.

The doctor sighed like a man who had just been told that there was no God and stood up again. He patted Sam reassuringly on the shoulder. "I'll take you back to your room."

They didn't speak on the way back, and Sam doubted that he would have had anything to say even if they did. He had no basis for what he had said, no context with which to discern his actions. Hutchison was just a doctor to him, a doctor he had only known for a collective twenty minutes. Whether or not he had children was beyond Sam. And yet the words were there, in his head, as if he had just known that they were true; like he knew the capital of the U.S. or a sports statistic. He had just known.

Sam groaned. _This day can't get any worse._

Hutchison flicked on the light to his room.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean asked. He was sitting quite comfortably on the bed.

Hutchison didn't notice. To him, Dean wasn't there.

_Correction_, Sam rolled his eyes. _It just got worse._

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Uh oh. Looks like Dean's not the only byproduct of Sam's psychic powers. WHEN WILL THE MENTAL INSANITY STOP? That statement was a grammatical nightmare, but it's been a long day - I'm sorry.

This chapter raises some questions about the extent of Sam's powers, and they're definitely not few and far between. If a demon wants to control them, you know he's got something going on in that head of his. Be patient, dear readers - the answers are coming. Meanwhile, group hug for Sam! Dean's a little fragile right now. And I don't know how you can hug and astral projection.


	5. Nightfall

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Four: Nightfall

"Seriously where you been, man? I leave the room for five minutes and you go on a pilgrimage with the doctor?" Dean hopped off the bed and marched forward like a feral animal, looking like he was about ready to beat the stuffing out of his baby brother. It was nothing personal, just the typical Winchester response to worry. Heaven forbid that any son of John Winchester show concern for another human being. No, they were raised to articulate unease into anger like good little soldiers. Thus, the chip on Dean's shoulder.

Hutchison marched right past Dean, oblivious to his presence. Sam rolled his eyes. _Figures_, he thought. Sharing a hallucination would have been unethical in his reality, even if it meant keeping his sanity.

"How's the pain?" Hutchison asked softly. His voice betrayed the stoic facade he was putting on to hide whatever anxieties Sam had awakened with his outburst in the Intensive Care.

"It's fine," he replied, directing the response to the doctor instead of Dean.

His brother didn't take kindly to being ignored. He showed his impatience in the typical Winchester way: he became indifferent. "Where have you been, Sam?"

Luckily, Hutchison interrupted their potential conversation again. "Can you make it back on the bed alright?"

Sam nodded, gripping the arm rests of the wheelchair tightly. He lifted himself to his feet, shaking the whole way from the exertion, but managed to balance himself somehow. Pain exploded through his chest, knocking the wind out of him. He jack knifed forward with a defeated groaned, mentally reiterating his new favourite mantra: _This sucks_.

The doctor caught him by the shoulders. "Easy, easy," he said, taking on the majority of Sam's weight without much difficulty. Taking the youngest Winchester by the forearms, he guided him the short distance to the bed before lowering him onto it. "Hang on a second and you can lay down."

Hutchison moved the IV bag from the wheelchair to the stand by the bed, giving Sam the ability to stretch out if he wanted. He didn't. Instead he stole a quick glance at Dean. The look on his brother's face told him that the older Winchester wasn't too happy with being ignored. Dean's eyes were narrowed menacingly at the sight of Hutchison helping out his brother. That was his job. It had always been his job.

"I'll be right back," Hutchison said. He grabbed the wheelchair and then left the room.

"You wanna tell me what that was about?" Dean lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

_Not really_, Sam thought bitterly, but answered anyways. "Decided I needed some fresh air."

"Are you sure that was you and not the concussion?"

"I was with the doctor, Dean, it's not like I was just wandering aimlessly," he snapped back. Who the hell was Dean to question his mental state? At least Sam was flesh and blood.

"You getting out of here anytime soon?"

"I don't know," Sam leaned on the gurney, curling up on his side. Pain surrounded him. Agony cradled him. Misery enrobed him. It was like being in the devil's womb. And Dean's presence was only making it worse.

His older brother dropped down onto the bed next to him with a deep sigh. For a moment there was silence, nothing more, and while Sam's throbbing skull was thankful, he knew that there was more to talk about than how long he would be in the hospital.

Unfortunately, any chances for conversation were interrupted by Doctor Hutchison. The aging doctor returned with two syringes in his hand and was in the process of uncapping one as he approached the bed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, what the hell are those?" Dean asked as he stood up. He had reverted back to his usual role of protector since Sam and he had nothing to talk about.

"I'm going to give you a muscle relaxant for your ribs and a sedative to help you sleep," Hutchison said to Sam. His eyes moved blindly over Dean and came to rest on the youngest Winchester, who shuddered involuntarily.

"No," he shook his head, answering the question far too quickly for his fear to go unnoticed. Sedative meant sleeping. Sleeping meant dreaming. Dreaming meant having a vision. It was a vicious cycle, one that usually resulted in insomnia. But the sedative meant that the cycle would just keep going and going, like some fucked up Energizer bunny.

The doctor had already picked up on his cue. "You've had a very long day, Sam."

Sam wanted to scream. A long day? His brother was dying. His father was never going to wake up. The only person he had left was a middle-aged psychic, and the only hope he ever had for destroying his mother and Jessica's killer was recently stolen by God-only-knows-who. He hadn't just had a long day. He'd had a long lifetime.

"Just the muscle relaxant then," he beseeched Hutchison breathlessly.

The doctor was reluctant at first, but then nodded. At least, Sam thought he did. The darkness of the room made it difficult to see exactly what Hutchison intended to do with the syringes.

His arm burned as the drug entered his system. He felt it first in his fingertips as the skin tingled and his tension eased. It spread up his arm like wildfire and reached his chest, working out the knots. For the first time that day, he could take a deep breath, one that filled him all the way to his toes.

Hutchison bade him good night in a quiet, defeated tone of voice. After a prolonged look at the youngest Winchester in the bed, he left the room.

"Hey!" Dean called after him. "Hey, doc!"

But Hutchison couldn't hear him. He just closed the door in response.

"Asshole," the older boy scoffed, slumping down on the bed again.

Sam laughed humourlessly. The natural high of the muscle relaxant caused what little sanity and self-control he had left to unravel. Dean didn't think the situation was very funny at all. His brow furrowed in confusion.

"You find this amusing, Sammy?"

"Do you even know how you got here, Dean? Or where you went when you left the room this morning?"

All the humour was gone from him now. Dean's brow got lower, and his eyes got narrower, if that were possible. Even in the dim light, Sam could picture his expression perfectly. His brother's incredulous stare penetrated his flesh, digging holes straight through to the floor. He was confused, partly due to the nature of the questions, but mostly because he didn't have an answer - to either of them.

"You don't, do you?"

It was a statement, not a question. Sam already knew that Dean wouldn't have a plausible explanation for where he'd been all day, or how he'd come to the hospital.

Fighting his fatigue, the younger man lifted himself onto his elbows and faced his brother.

"You're an astral projection, Dean. A hallucination."

To him, the explanation had been as succinct as it could get; straight, to the point, no nonsense, exactly the way Dean liked it. There was no need to argue, not with Dean's vague or nonexistent recollections.

An affectionate swat to the head a moment later told Sam that Dean didn't agree with him.

"OW!" Sam hiss as a lingering headache flared to life once more.

"Do I feel like a hallucination to you?" his brother demanded.

"Jesus...DEAN!" Sam didn't care much for tact anymore. Dean may have been an astral projection, but he sure as hell felt real. A wave of dizziness ran through him and he was forced to lay back on the bed, clenching the sheet in his fists as he fought against the fires coursing through his skull.

Both brothers opened their mouths to argue, but were interrupted by the phone ringing. Sam shot a disapproving glance at the mechanism, groaning as every shrill ring caused another wave of agony to pass through his skull. Dean made a mad grab for it, but Sam was closer. He grabbed the receiver before Dean could even lean forward for it.

"Hello?" he asked groggily, fighting Dean off for the ability to speak on the phone.

"Sam, honey?" Missouri said from the other line. "I know how nice it is to see your brother again, but you really need to get some sleep."

He opened his mouth to ask her how she knew, but then nodded. _Psychic, remember?_

"Who is it?" Dean asked, his voice nothing but a whisper.

Sam shushed him, trying to listen to Missouri as she spoke. "Now you tell that boy to either keep it down or get out of the room. You're gonna need your strength for tomorrow."

"Umm...yeah, sure," Sam looked up at Dean and covered the mouth piece on the receiver. "You should probably go."

"Like hell I'm leaving," Dean scoffed. "Who the hell is that on the phone?"

"No one."

"Give me the phone, Sammy."

"It's Sam."

"Give me the phone!" he reached for the receiver. The two boys fell back in a crumpled heap on the bed, fighting over the phone.

"DEAN MATTHEW WINCHESTER!"

The voice caught both boys off-guard. Sam jumped back, causing the receiver to fall out of his hands. Dean looked like a fire work had gone off. He stared at the receiver as Missouri's voice blared out from it.

"Missouri?" Dean said, but it was more of a question than a statement. Sam picked up the phone from the bed.

"Sorry about that."

"No need to be sorry, sweetie. Just don't be surprised if that doctor comes back with that sedative."

He sighed. That was the last thing he needed. "Yeah," he replied with a slight nod.

"Now tell your brother you'll talk to him tomorrow and get some sleep. We'll deal with his situation when you're feeling a bit better."

Sam nodded again, not realizing that Missouri couldn't see him until a moment later. "Yeah."

"Good night, Sam."

"Night," he replied. The audible click on the other line told him that Missouri was finished with the conversation for the night. He hung up as well and turned his attention to Dean again.

"Missouri's in town?" he asked, trying to prolong the conversation.

"Yeah," the younger brother replied. He looked back at his brother, seated comfortably on the end of the bed, and realized just how much he didn't want to tell him to go. This was, within all possibility, the last time he might see his brother alive, even if he was just a mentally projected image. The small comfort was that he looked like Dean, sounded like Dean, and felt like Dean. If all of those things were true, why couldn't this person be his brother instead of an annoying hallucination?

Dean sighed and hopped off the gurney. "You wanna get your precious beauty sleep, I'll leave the room. But there's no way in hell I'm leaving this hospital."

"No," Sam said suddenly. The word just popped out of his mouth without thought. "No, it's cool. I...uh..." Dean was staring at him, his expression screaming for Sam to just spit out whatever he was trying to say.

Sam's mouth went dry. Everything he wanted to say was a breech of he and his brother's unspoken conduct. There was no need for any type of emotional outburst of sympathy or need.They were alone in the world,even when they had each other, and they weren't supposed toneed that company.That didn't help Sam at all, not when he was desperate forhis brother'spresence; worseyetwhen he realized that this could be the lasttime he'd ever have it.

"If you want me to go..." Dean pointed to the door.

"Just stay, Dean," Sam said suddenly. He sighed in relief. His brother was the master of evading awkward family moments.There were no awkward 'chick-flick' moments, no statements of girlish need. He had reduced it toa basic concept. They were two guys spending the night in a hospital room together.Dean didn't have to suffer through one of Sam's heartfelt speeches on how important their relationship was, and in turn, Sam didn't become the object of his brother's often abrasive scrutiny.

Dean cast a wary glance out into the hall, worried that the doctor might come back in the room and give him the light of day. No one seemed to notice him though, so he slumped down in the chair next to Sam's bed.

Sam lowered himself onto his side slowly, pulling the light blankets overtop of himself as he did so. Snuggling into the pillow, he stole another glance at Dean who was getting ready to face the night like he usually did when Sam was sick. He shifted uncomfortably, leaning back in the chair. Only after several minutes of fussing did he find a position he could maintain for the many hours he would be sitting there.

"Night," Dean said.

Sam's heart sank. He stared at Dean again, making a memory of his face. He pondered Dean's mortality in silence, eyes burning with a condemning, futile question.

Was this it?

He closed his eyes in defeat. "Good night," he murmured, but what he was really saying was good bye.

**Author's Notes**

This chapter was the hardest to write so far, and I'm not very proud of it. I just thought Sam needed a break after last chapter, so I gave him as much of a break as I could. Next chapter will have some more Missouri and some possible solutions for their problems.

There may be some questions about this: Missouri wasn't intentionally trying to get rid of Dean. I just think that if she has Sam's best interests in mind, having Dean as a roommate isn't the best cure for some brusied ribs and an injured head.

And, while we're on the topic of Dean, I have no idea what his middle name is. Matthew sounded like it flowed really well, but if I've got it wrong, please tell me in a review and I'll change it. Thanks!

Hope everyone was in character! Expect the next chapter within a few days!


	6. Parallels

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Five: Parallels

Missouri knew better than to look into the dreams of an unwilling subject. Not that Sam was uneasy about having the psychic peer into his conscious thoughts. When they had met for the first time, he found her telepathic abilities astounding, even partially entertaining. His childlike curiosity had been piqued, even when she brought up more heavy hitting topics like his father and Jessica.

This didn't mean she felt welcome inside of his dreams. Conscious thoughts were easy and, the way Missouri saw it, free reign for a telepath. Unconscious ones, however, were private reflections of the soul - wants, needs, and desires - and they were off limits, even to the most discrete of psychics. She wouldn't appreciate someone looking into her fantasies, so she avoided peeking into other people's.

Although, something about walking into Sam Winchester's room that day told her she might want to break her silent promise. It was nearly noon by the time she had arrived at the hospital and the boy was still sleeping, unsurprising all things considered. His little visit to Dean's room had kept her tossing and turning the night before from all the psychic energy being used. Sam was probably exhausted from his romp in the past and the present. Curled up on his side, he resembled a cat more than a human. His right arm was folded under the pillow with just his fingers folding up from the other side. The blankets had been pulled almost completely over his head, leaving only a small section of his forehead and a large clump of brown, wavy hair protruding. He had kept his long legs folded up towards his chest in a vaguely fetal position, one he would probably regret upon waking. Sleeping like that couldn't be comfortable with all his bruises.

At first she thought it would be best to just leave the room, let him sleep as long as he could before the pain woke him. But the second she turned to face the door, he twitched, ever so slightly, and mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. The action was followed by a sharp intake of breath and then frantic movement. Sam jerked back on the bed, every muscle in his body tightening in a frantic attempt to ward off whatever he saw in his mind's eye.

"Sam?" she asked, approaching the bed slowly. His breathing was irratic, not so much from pain but from fear. He shivered involuntarily while his eye movement was steady. He wasn't dreaming, she realized, he was having a vision. When she was first discovering her own abilities the same sort of symptoms plagued her. Sleep was disturbed by something that wasn't quite a dream, but couldn't really be described as anything else. Unrest stemmed from the inability to accept such images. The mind had natural barriers against certain types of ethereal energy, even in a psychic's mind. It took a while for those walls to be broken down. Eventually, Sam would be able to nearly get a full night's sleep, though some of the more violent visions would still bring about the same frantic reaction.

Torn between taking a look into Sam's thoughts and leaving him to fight off the attack by himself, Missouri stopped short at the edge of the gurney. She reached out to touch him on the shoulder, when Sam shied away, turned his head, and whispered a single word.

"Lilith..."

His eyes flew open. Shocked by Missouri's presence and proximity he threw himself back against the flimsy mattress. Waves of nausea rolled through him like ripples over a pond, interrupted only by the usual fire in his chest and head. It wasn't as bad as it had been yesterday, but that didn't make it any less bothersome. His left side felt like mush, as if it had been tossed and pummelled like pizza dough. The bruise had now expanded past the edges of the bandages, all the shades of the cold spectrum: blue, purple, gray, and black. The slightest pressure caused them to flare to life as if he were striking a match made of pain, one that caused a chain reaction across his entire form.

"Sam?" Missouri asked. He reached up to his face with his left hand, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Bad dream?"

He winced, inhaling as slow as he could manage, and feeling the familiar stiffness across his ribcage loosen. "You might say that," he replied breathlessly. What he saw couldn't really be called a dream, just a successions of images. A pentacle, Hebrew writing, demonic sigils...random nonsense really that had yet to become clear and coherent to the young clairvoyant.

Bile rose dangerously in his throat, and he decided to stay lying down for the time being. The night before replayed in his brain like a film on fast forward, and came to a crashing halt on only one thought. Before he could stop himself, he was sitting up. "Dean?"

Searching the hospital room, he found that he was alone except for Missouri, who was now reaching for the bed controls to give him some additional support. "Lay down before you fall down," she warned, giving him a gentle push back in the bed. "I take it we're alone."

A statement, not a question. Sam wasn't expecting anything less. Surely Missouri would be able to see his brother, or, at the very least, sense his presence. He didn't even bother to say anything in response, just nodded with a wheeze.

The room felt smaller without Dean, as if the walls had just appeared overnight, locking him out of a world he never really belonged in anyways. Stanford felt the same way. He thought that leaving his father was the most liberating choice he had ever made, only to discover that he had escaped one prison and locked himself into another. The difference was that John had never tried to hide the bars. His boys had always been aware of their imprisonment. Stanford was just a gilded cage, whose locks were hidden under the guise of academic excellence. He was marked because of his intelligence and his mystery, hidden away by the freakish family history he couldn't divulge with anyone.

It occured to him, after he spent the first few months in total solitude, that the thing that really made Stanford a prison wasn't the secrets he was sworn to keep, but the fact that Dean wasn't there. Walls didn't matter when you had an older brother to hang out with, especially an older brother like Dean who could find fun in the most unlikeliest of places. Boundaries didn't matter, borders were forgettable...it was Dean and Sam Winchester till the end of the world.

"He's still the same?" Sam asked. He figured the question was redundant. Missouri would have mentioned something if it had. She gave a small, sad smile and shook her head, 'no'. Sam sighed. He knew it was too good to be true.

"But, I did manage to find you some things that'll change your mood a little," she reached into the bag at her side and pulled out his sacred laptop. Aside for a few scratches and minor crask, it was completely in tact, probably worked just as well as it ever had. Sam smiled in spite of himself, taking the laptop in his good hand, grimacing from the pull of the IV butterfly in his flesh, before setting it down gently on his legs. He ran his fingers over it, a small reminder that his life hadn't disappeared off the face of the planet.

"Thanks," he said, opening the screen and pressing the power button. The computer sprang to life. Another smile passed quickly over his face. He turned his attention back on the psychic. "Have you found out anything to help Dean?"

Missouri could sense Sam's impatience at the thought of Dean's condition. It rolled off of him in thick waves, about as evident as the scratches running the length of his face. "Dean's condition," she was using the word lightly, and no one knew it better than Sam, "Is only remedied when he wakes up. His mind is only active on varying levels of consciousness, one which affects only you." Sam exhaled heavily at the thought. "I think you could help him if you convinced his projection that he isn't real."

"Easier said than done," he commented, his voice laced with bitterness directed more towards his brother's stubborn nature than Missouri's idea.

"Tell me about it," she rolled her eyes at the thought. Trying to change Dean Winchester was trying to move a mountain. People died in the attempt. "Still, it might be enough of a shock to wake him up."

He nodded in agreement, looking back to the laptop computer. He felt like his unravelled lifestyle was slowly coming back together. The bruises would fade, Dean would wake up, and he'd catch up on a whole bunch of research he'd been meaning to do since his dreams started. They'd have their father transferred to Lawrence or a nearby long-term care facility and then...and then...

_And then what, genius? You guys settle down and live a normal life? The Winchesters wouldn't know a normal life if it bit them on the ass. Hell, dad and Dean would probably unload several shells of rock salt and a couple of clips of silver bullets into it before they realized they were gunning down the unspoken goal of their American dream._

Missouri tapped him affectionately on the thigh. "And stop thinking like that. We've got a lot of things to work out before you and your brother come home. And he _will_ come home."

Sam smiled softly. She returned it.

* * *

After coaxing Sam into another one of Hutchison's liquid lunches, Missouri excused herself to hover around another Winchester. The psychic left him in the care of a nurse young enough to be a Stanford freshman, who blushed crimson whenever Sam gave her even the slightest of glances. She was cute, Sam had to admit, but was more Dean's type. Blonde, blue-eyed, and petite, she was the sort of girl who would have been wrapped around his brother's finger (and other more prominent organs south of the equator) within just a few minutes of sweet talking.

She made a little bit of conversation with him, introducing herself as Stephanie Brewer, Steph for short. "This is my first job as a nurse," she declared with a giggle, looking more like Britney Spears with every smile. Dean would be leaping out of his pants by now. Sam was just trying not to blush as wildly as she. "Doctor Hutchison said you were pretty easy going; figured you'd be good for a medical virgin." She laughed at the inuendo like a twelve year old on her first date, and Sam even found himself chuckling under his breath, although he was more concerned with all the mental images her comment inspired regarding his older brother.

After his afternoon medications, Stephanie left the room to make other rounds. Full of fluids he didn't want and swimming in the pleasant drugginess caused by the painkillers, he turned his attention on his precious computer. Missouri had left him the AC adaptor before leaving, giving him unlimited access to whatever resources remained on its hard drive. Whoever had cleaned out the car had been meticulous according to Missouri. She had inspected the insurance report and left that with him as well to examine with a warning not to overwork himself. "I've got my eye on you," she said, only half-joking.

He scoffed at the notion. He never overworked himself...that often.

Scanning the report, he found the diagnosis was grim for the beloved 1967 Impala. Taking the front of a semi to its side had folded Dean's precious vehicle into an automobile fortune cookie. The impound had some of the best mechanics in Des Moines take a look at it and each provided an astronomical quote for the car's repair. And while Dean would insist that no expense was too high for his baby, money was hard enough to come by without hospital fees. Sam was pained to admit it, but eventually came to terms with the fact that part of he and Dean's 'To Do' list after they were released was find new, suitable, and most importantly cheap transportation.

Setting the insurance report aside, he turned his sights back on the laptop. Not surprisingly, the hospital offered no Internet services whatsoever. Sam didn't even bother to check, and went straight to the file labelled 'My Documents'. The multitude of files inside bore various names, some pertaining to hunting trips while others were more harmless like 'My Received Files'.

After another restless night of murderous nightmares, he double clicked on the 'My Pictures' file. Dean and he lived by their father's sacred mantra - waste not, want not. They rarely deleted anything whether it be writing files or Internet favourites, just in case they needed anything for future reference. Something about the pentacle sparked strong feelings of deja vu for Sam, so he set out to find out why.

Thanks to his organizational skills, he narrowed his search down to three files filled with pictures. 'Pentacles' was such a broad topic he had opted against housing the stars altogether. After all, pentacles meant different things depending on their shape and the way they were drawn. Inverted pentacles, the ones most commonly associated with devil worship, were also employed in Wiccan teachings as the unmaking of a Pagan student. Due to the ambiguity of certain symbols, Sam had sorted them according to the supernatural creature they were most closely linked too. The pentacle in his vision was an average silver star with one distinct difference. Along the thin bands making up the five pointed star was writing, an invocation of some kind, meaning that the pentacle was directly related to a deity of some kind.

With his memory currently out of commission, he relied solely on the slideshow option. Scanning the photographs of his files one by one, he came across any number of five pointed stars in all sorts of colours, shapes, sizes, and textures, bearing any number of exclusive markings, but not a single one reminiscient of his dream star.

His eyes started to hurt from the strain. Rubbing them hard, he decided to take a little break, or rather, his body forced him too. He lacked the strength to stare at the screen for another hour. With a deep sigh, Sam leaned back on his bed. _It has to be here_, a voice in his mind said matter-of-factly. Deciding he better trust his instincts, he clicked open another file and kept searching.

Only after two more slideshows did he decide that he was SOL. The pentacle was a pretty universal shape to begin with, even outside the Neo-Pagan sects. It had been a Masonic and Christian symbol centuries ago, making his search even more futile. Not that it hadn't been in the beginning. The only real thing he had to go on was the inscription, Hebrew letters that meant absolutely nothing to him. It was a small help, though. Pentacles may have been universal, but Hebrew wasn't. The two were a clash of cultures Sam had never heard of bef0re. It narrowed down his search for the time being, but only led to more problems in the long run. Kabbalah dogma was huge, as was any type of doctrines associated with the pentacle.

_I am so screwed_.

"What'cha looking at?"

The deep baritone of his brother's voice made him nearly jump out of his skin. It appeared out of the blue, hovering inches from his left ear. Slumping back on the bed, he shot an irritated look at his older brother.

"Geez, Dean," he exhaled heavily. "Can you at least knock before you magically appear?"

"And miss the look on your face? Never." Dean circled the bed and dropped down into the chair again. He cast a disapproving glance at Sam's reading material. "So what's all this?"

"What's what?" Sam asked, restarting the slide show. He knew what was coming. It was time for Dean's classic, "You're injured, get some sleep," speech.

"You know what I'm talking about, Sam. Guy with a concussion should be taking it easy."

"I'm fine, Dean," he countered. "And even if I wasn't, there's a lot to take care of right now."

"Nothing that can't wait."

He rubbed his eyes. Damn Dean for being right. Closing the screen of the laptop, he looked over to his brother. There was a definite dichotomy between the two in terms of appearance. Dean was still glowing in his mentally projected splendor: clean clothes, healthy complexion -which was, on its own, a rarity from a life lived off fast food and almost zero sleep. Sam hadn't bathed in over forty-eight hours. His bruises were getter larger, his wounds were still inflamed and weeping. Helooked like...well, helooked how hefelt - like crap.

"You gotta take it easy, man," Dean said with his usual, "I'm the older brother. I'm always right," tone of voice.

Sam sighed. He stared into his brother's eyes. Dean was obviously self-conscious about it. His body went rigid, as if he were expecting a blow. In actual fact, he was anticipating one of his brother's heartfelt speeches, but the reaction to both were pretty much the same.

"Dean, do you..."

"Don't start, Sam," Dean warned.

"All I'm saying is..."

"You're crazy. We know."

"That's not what I..."

Dean interrupted him with a long string of gibberish, cutting Sam off before he could even begin. So mature. Sam started again. "All I'm saying is..."

Another outburst of half-formed words.

"Would you just..."

Again.

"Oh for God's sake!" he relented at the top of his lungs.

"God's got nothing to do with you being buckets-o-crazy, college boy," Dean leaned back in his seat with an air of victory. It was the same air he permeated whenever he mentioned getting that extra cookie from Dad when they were kids. The untold part of the story, the one that Dean never mentioned _ever_, was that he would always hand off half to his kid brother with a small smile of support, sometimes more.

"Why do you think the doctor couldn't see you, Dean? Or why you always appear in my room?"

"Doctor's an SOB and I'm brother of the freaking year."

Of course. Why hadn't Sam thought of that before?

"You're not really here, Dean. You're a mental projection. Your body is two floors down, in a coma."

Dean shook his head, blocking out whatever Sam was saying. He stood up from his chair and paced the room, anything except listen his kid brother.

"Stop it, Sam," his voice was getting threatening again, and everyone knew Dean Winchester's policy on threats. He didn't just say something, he went through and did it.

"You're dying, Dean."

"Would you listen to yourself?" his brother snapped. "This is mental, Sam."

"After spending your life hunting monsters you say this is mental?"

"Those are easy, Sam. Even you have to admit this is above and beyond our call of duty."

"We were in a car accident two days ago. Dad had been possessed. Any of this ringing a bell?"

The older Winchester had his thinking face on. "No," he said frankly, his expression a mixture of confusion and almost physical pain. "Not really."

"They found us ten minutes outside of Des Moines," Sam continued. Dean's face became more and more twisted, like someone was driving a red hot poker into him. "We were hit by a semi. The car was totalled."

Dean winced. It was like watching a mirror shatter. Sam's words were causing him real pain, by the looks of it.

He stopped talking. "Dean?"

His brother gasped for breath. He reached out for the wall to support himself.

Sam pushed off his blankets and worked on getting out of the bed. "Dean?" He ignored his physical limitations, grabbed his IV stand, and worked his way over to his ailing brother. His legs were shaking violently by the time he reached Dean and he'd broken out in a cold sweat. Not to mention the nausea that had returned. But the need to assist his brother overpowered whatever agony he might be in.

He grabbed his brother by the shoulders. "Here," he said.

Dean pulled back violently, holding his hand in the air as a warning. He inched towards the wall, face twitching again. It was as if his body were no longer his own. His mind was reeling for some kind of control, only to find none. He slipped deep within himself, watching as the edge of his vision grayed, and in the soundlessness of his mind, he became acutely aware of constant beeping in his head like an electronic metronome. Unwillingly, it carried him downward into what felt like hellfire. Heat swept over in, above and below his flesh, flowing through him like a river of pain.

Sam's hands were on his shoulders again, but this time he couldn't fight it. He was paralyzed and feverish to a point where even breathing became a chore. Every breath was like inhaling water.

Voice fluttered through his consciousness like butterflies with only one wing.

And then he was back in Sam's room being guided over to the bed by his baby brother. Both boys slumped down on the gurney, breathless, sweating, and shaking.

When he did find his voice, it was but a whisper. "What the hell is going on, Sammy?"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Finally, a chapter I'm feeling a little bit more confident about. It only took six rehashes and a lot of patience, but I finally have something I can post and be proud of.

There's not a lot to explain about the chapter. Lilith, the pentacle, and the Hebrew is all coming up later, so hang in there!


	7. One Sided Conversations

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Six: One Sided Conversations

Sam had only ever witnessed his life turn upside down twice in his menial twenty-two years.

The first was at eighteen, leaving for Stanford. His father and he had fought for three hours straight, exchanging curse word after curse word, blow after blow, until John Winchester, in a moment of passion only he could muster, uttered that fateful ultimatum that haunted Sam to that very day. "If you leave this house," he said gruffly, "Don't come back."

His father wasn't yelling. His voice had reverted back to the familiar ex-Marine tone, the one he used before he and his sons marched into their unholy crusade. It was the tone he barked orders with, the one that left no room for questions because it was the tone that teetered on the brink of two extremes: follow the voice and survive. Disobey it and die.

So Sam hadn't questioned it. He was sick of arguing. He was sick of fighting. He was sick of John. Without another word, he collected his duffel bag and did just as his father commanded him, just like a good little soldier: he left the house, and he didn't come back.

Everything he knew to be true, suddenly, was a lie. For the first few nights, Sam sat awake on his bed, staring at the cracks of light around the door fearfully, waiting for some silhouette to appear from the great beyond and attack him. He kept a knife in his hand, keeping himself awake by flipping the blade in and out, in and out, trusting the rhythm as he had trusted it in battle. For several hours he was home again, in a world he understood instead of one he didn't.

After a week, sleep claimed him. He developed new rhythms, ones less sinister than the snapping of a switch blade. Go to classes, study your ass off, hang out with some friends, sleep for a few hours, repeat. No more watching the doorway. No more sleepless nights. He had become so normal it scared him; so normal he no longer thought about going back home.

The second time his world turned upside down, academics weren't to blame. Dean was. Sam had been naive enough to think that after four years, his brother's return would ultimately mean nothing. He would go on a road trip for the weekend and then come home to Jessica, to Stanford, to his future; a future that adheared so completely to his father's wishes it was almost beyond Sam's comprehension. In retrospect, he would have kicked the shit out of himself for being so childish. But hindsight was always 20/20, and deep down, he knew that there wouldn't have been anything he could do. Jessica would still be on the ceiling. And he'd probably be burned up in the room with her.

Either way, his fragile grip on reality had been flipped. He was back on his bed, watching the door with a knife in hand, that familiar rhythm replaying itself over and over in his mind. Whether it was a switch blade or a hand gun, it didn't matter. At the end of the day it was about surviving. It was about that bloody voice again. And it was about that freakishly familiar ultimatum: obey thy father or die.

Now, the world had done it again. Forty-eight hours before Dean dared ask what the hell was going on, Sam's existence had spun off its axis, tossed itself around a little bit, and then shattered into tiny pieces he was in no condition to put back together. Not yet at least. Feelings of uselessness washed over him again, beating him down again just as he started working on building himself back up.

Laying back on the bed, he stopped fighting against the pain for a moment, allowing it to exist freely. Wheezing audibly, he found that accepting his predicament rather than rebelling against it made it easier to breathe. It was a shame the emotional distress didn't fade so easily. Acceptance only served to make that worse.

Two days ago everything was so simple: there was a hunt. There was a mission. There were archetypes and objectives; procedure and protocol no matter how primitive. The crash destroyed all that. Ambiguity ran rampant in a world where none of their father's skills could help them. How could they? Hunting was not the best medicine for the broken. Even Sam's newer routines couldn't help, not without something to study.

His response to Dean was the sound of him shifting back on the bed. His brother cast a curious glance over his shoulder, brow cocked in slight confusion regarding the silence.

Sam grabbed the phone, quickly dialing the number for the switchboard.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

His little brother wheezed, closing his eyes for a second. Dean thought maybe he'd passed out, but a second later, Sam spoke. "I'm going to figure this out."

* * *

If Missouri hadn't been psychic, she wouldn't have expected Sam to call her at all. The vision alone was unbelievable. Neither of the Winchester brothers had ever been taught how to ask for help, certainly not by John anyways. They were schooled in the militaristic art of working as a Unit so there was no need to ever request assistance.

After a rousing one-sided discussion with the comatose John Winchester where she had relayed 'the usual' - how his boys were doing, what the weather was like, how much trouble he was gonna be in when he woke up for not calling her sooner - she was propelled unwillingly into a vision of Sam's room, where John's youngest was locked in a mellee with his conscience. In the red corner was his weakness, one even one as stubborn as he could no longer deny. In the blue corner was his scholarly personality, the one that needed to know exactly what happened and why.

She understood his motives. Justification was part of the human condition, to give meaning to the emptiness. And yet, two days not nearly enough healing time for Sam's physical injuries, let alone to deal with the emotional aspects of his recovery.

Casting a glance at her purse, she reached out with her mind to the files within. After receiving the phone call that brought her to Des Moines in the first place, she had requested that the investigators keep her apprised of absolutely everything. Not that she left them much choice not to. One look from the psychic was enough to tear down the iron resolve of any police chief. They had handed her the preliminary reports, but they were nothing special. Nothing that would appease Sam's insatiable hunger for the truth anyways. Thankfully, one of the officers had made photocopies of their more in depth study of the accident and handed them over without complaint.

After getting back to her hotel room the night before, she'd gone through them several times before going to bed. Not that she had much of a choice really. Sam's psychic distress sent shock waves through he consciousness, and sleep was pretty much impossible before the boy's muscle relaxant started kicking in. However, after taking a long look at them - both physically and psychically - she'd come up pretty much snake-eyes. There were some inconsistances in the facts, things that would probably make more sense to Sam than she, but the strangest part of it was how hidden everything seemed. Her visions of the crash always went black the instant the semi rammed the Impala, returning only when the paramedics arrived on scene ten minutes later.

Ten minutes? Or twenty minutes? The report said something different.

Feelings were sprinkled through the black out, however, a fact she was slowly becoming aware of every time she looked back. Reading the minds of both John and Dean proved pointless. Neither were completely conscious the instant of the crash. As for Sam, his brains were so scrambled from hitting the steering wheel the memory didn't fully exist. Images would flicker as if they were passing through a dying projector before succombing to the same darkness her own visions would, reemerging just as the boys in blue arrived to work the scene.

It was for this reason she didn't feel so guilty about opting to hand over the reports to Sam, when and if he called. Her patience was wearing thin as it was, what with John and Dean just lying there and Sam growing desperate for even an illusion of control. _Come on, _she willed him. _Just call already. Neither of us have all day_.

Missouri was just about ready to leave the room when the phone finally rang. She sighed and smiled, grabbing the receiver. "It is about time you called me here. And I know you didn't pick the wrong room, so don't even bother making excuses for yourself."

No salutation, just straight to business as usual. She'd already waited long enough for the boy to get the nerve to call her. There was no sense in engaging in trivial small talk. It was one of the nice things about being a psychic - a lot of time and energy wasn't wasted on pointless conversation. Of course, people could avoid that if they wanted to. Missouri was just convinced normal people enjoyed being redundant.

Knowing the break in speech was from a confused look Sam was directing at Dean, Missouri took advantage and kept going with the one sided conversation. "I've got everything you need, sweetie, but you really should be getting some rest."

"I know and I'm sorry," she rolled her eyes at the boy's apology. She could feel him wince from the unseen gesture on the other line. "I just...I have to..."

"You have to know," Missouri nodded. "I'll be there in a minute."

Sam was smiling through the phone line, the warmth of his boyish grin filling her like melted chocolate. He would always be the baby of the family, much to his chagrin no doubt. Still felt like it was yesterday he was in diapers, wrapped up in baby blankets, screaming at anyone who dared to touch him except Dean. Even as a child, he knew his older brother was his protector. Even John was regarded with the same type of suspicion, and didn't dare lay a hand on Sam without Dean present and accounted for.

Grabbing her oversized purse, the psychic bade John Winchester good-bye for now. "I'll be back before visiting hours are over," she said, patting the comatose man on the hand. He was still warm, as if he'd just dozed off inside a hospital. Surely this wasn't the same man the doctor was talking about, the man who would never see his boys through one of the worst fights of their lives. This couldn't possibly be the gent who would never be at his son's weddings, see his grandchildren.

Because John Winchester wasn't gone yet. And Missouri knew that as long as there was a breath in his body, mechanical or not, he would be there. He would wake up.

After a quick glance into Dean's room, she entered the elevator and headed for the third floor. Sam's room was in the regular wards, the doctors having been very optimistic about his condition when he was brought in. He wasn't nearly as banged up as his father or his brother and was steadily on the mend, even that morning, when he'd looked like death warmed over. What the boy lacked in athleticism, he made up for with the same Winchester stubborness, and was no doubt be itching to get out of the hospital ASAP.

The doors opened. Missouri marched straight down the hall to Sam's room, halting before entering more out of surprise than anything else.

She had known that Dean was in the room the second she heard the phone ring, though in what form, she had no idea. Astral projections usually took obvious physical form when present, and she had half expected to see him sitting smugly on the end of the bed in that typical Dean Winchester fashion. Imagine her surprise when Dean's presence was felt instead of seen, circling the bed as a protective energy rather than a spiritual projection.

If she squinted a little she could actually see it. Dean's life force burned as brightly as fire itself in much the same colours. It swept through her flesh, quickly ascertaining friend from foe thanks to those hunting instincts John had ingrained into his psyche.

_Thank God the doctors aren't psychic_, she thought. Dean's presence could hold back an army.

Missouri had seen it before. The spirits of the deceased often centered themselves around their loved ones in the same manner, the only difference being that Dean was most certainly alive and the only cases she had ever seen dealt with the dead. Then again, stranger things had happened in her lifetime.

Once Dean had given her a psychic once-over, the force retracted and she was allowed to enter.

"You tell that brother of yours he's got to ease up on the defenses a bit. Those nurses down the hall are more of a threat than I am."

Sam exchanged a confused look with the invisible boy on the end of the bed. Even with the gift of sight, Missouri was left high and dry. Looks like she wasn't the only one enjoying one sided conversations.

"You can see him?" he asked hopefully.

"Sorry sweetie. And I mean that. Living with things that only you can see is bad enough without it being Dean Winchester."

Sam tried to hold back a snicker from both the comment and the reaction. Dean looked like he had been blindsided by an anvil, and there was nothing he could do about it. John Winchester had taught his sons to respect their elders under pain of death, and there was no way he was going to get blatantly snotty with Missouri, not when Sam was the only one who could hear his rebuttle.

"Now then, you want the papers on the accident then?"

"Do you have them?"

"Wouldn't be much of a psychic if I didn't now would I?" she reached into her purse and pulled out the folders. They weren't thick, but they had enough to keep him satisfied for a few hours at least. Sam tried to take them from her but she waved them out of his reach.

"I'm only gonna give you these if you promise to take it easy. None of this non-stop research you college kids are so famous for. After visiting hours are over, you get to bed and restart in the morning, okay?"

He nodded, not feeling like he had much of a choice at all. Missouri stared deeply into his eyes, reading whatever thoughts she could find first, and knew without a doubt giving Sam the folders would ensure a sleepless night for the youth. Then again, not giving them to him would probably reach the same outcome, so it was just the better of two evils in this case. At least he wasn't rotting his brain in front of the television.

"How's dad?" Sam asked, trying to change the topic. Unconsciously, his hands gripped the folders till his knuckles were white and the tendons were popping from under his skin.

"He's fine, well as can be expected. Doing better by the looks of it than your goofy brother is."

Dean was busy waving a hand in front of her face, having leapt off the bed to reassess his current situation. Missouri seemed to notice that he was closer than he should have been and shot an intense expression in his general direction. Dean jerked back.

"I thought she couldn't see me?" he asked Sam.

"I may not be able to see you, Dean, but that haughty presence of yours is pretty unmistakable," Missouri said, still looking straight at Dean. He turned and faced Sam, who shrugged in response, unable to hold back a grin any longer. She always put Dean in his place, no matter how cocky he may have been feeling that day, and given their current situation, Sam would take humour where he could get it. "Now, sit your sorry self down and get to work on waking up."

Missouri hadn't said it directly. Hell, her tone hadn't even implied it, but Sam knew that underneath that harsh facade was a secret message, one Dean probably picked up on as well. She was telling him that he was needed, in so many words, that even if she and Sam could face the future by themselves, they wouldn't want to.

Not without Dean.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

This chapter took me a little longer than expected. Once again, I developed a case of writer's block that took several revisions to finally shake. Unfortunately, the second I recovered I was called in to work and spent the next five hours with a goofy smile on my face from my _Supernatural_ daydreaming. I got some strange looks from customers, but didn't really care. Had too much Sam and Dean on the brain to really notice.

Anyways, this chapter was supposed to include more pertinent information, but when I started writing, more backstory came out than I thought I was going to have. Now that Sam has the police reports, the mystery will build a little bit. Also, there will be more Dean now that I know exactly how the plot is going to work, but whether he remains a spirit guide to Sammy is still going unspoken.

Missouri can't see Dean, it's true. Sam has a lot of untapped ability inside that brain of his, and the way Missouri referenced it in the show leads me to believe that his powers might even supercede her own. That being said, she can sense Dean's aura, but she can't physically see or feel him. Only Sam.

Also, I'm under firm belief that Missouri can get anything she needs with just one of those intense stares she famous for, including police reports on a car accident.


	8. Back to Basics

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Warning: This chapter contains references to the current Iraqi conflict. They're not blatant, but they are there. This warning is just for readers who find this type of information offensive or are particularly sensitive to it.

* * *

Chapter Seven: Back to Basics

Research was a rhythm Sam understood. The police records Missouri provided him with gave him renewed strength and despite the fact that he was still struggling to breathe, he started the long process of reading through every detail of the accident. Dean took up pacing around the room, still trying to accept the fact that he wasn't really flesh and blood.

He groaned. No matter how many times he said it to himself, it didn't sink in. Worse yet, poking Sam only made it worse.

"Stop," his younger brother smacked his hand away.

Dean shrugged and slumped down in the chair next to the bed.

"So what have we got, college boy?"

Sam stopped short, gazing long and hard at the photograph in front of him. The crushed remains of the Impala stared back at him, a testament to his shattered existence. He glanced from the picture to Dean, who looked back incredulously. All things considered, it probably wasn't the best time to tell his brother about the car. Dean had enough on his plate as it was with the whole astral projection thing.

He hid the picture inside the multitude of other papers. "Right now, absolutely nothing. Just a normal car accident." The statement was an oxymoron in more ways than one. Normal was not a term commonly associated with the Winchester's, least of all with a car accident. "Suspect's an average Iowa truck driver who died at the scene. Police determined cause of death to be a fatal heart attack."

"Did he have a history of heart problems?" Dean asked, still looking like he was being forced to watch grass grow, but Sam knew better. His brother played up the image of being a slacker because being interested in research just wasn't cool. All through high school he was the hugely athletic bad ass, the kind of guy who could care less about his classes, even less about his teachers. While Sam stayed home Friday nights, eyes glued to his University prep textbooks, Dean was living the good life by his own mantra: sex, cars, and rock 'n roll.

Nowadays he was pretty much the same, hiding his own 'need-to-know' nature beneath an impenetrable layer of 'I-could-care-less'.

Sam flipped back through a couple of pages to the autopsy report. How Missouri got her hands on some of this stuff, he'd never know. He expected it from his dad and Dean. Figured it was common sense for those two to wind up with documents never meant to see the light of day. But Missouri? Never. Not in a million years.

"Yes," he said, finally finding the history he was looking for. "Last year, he was put on a pacemaker after suffering not one but two heart attacks in rapid succession."

"Ouch," Dean commented, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah," Sam nodded. "He probably had the heart attack just as he was stopping at that intersection and ran straight into us."

"So how's my car?" Dean asked quickly. _Typical_, Sam thought. _Man dies and all Dean Winchester cares about is his car._ To be fair, the man did die of natural causes, but Dean's love for an inanimate object was a little unhealthy.

There was a beat. Sam was hesitant to tell Dean about his car while he was still wallowing in a transcendant state. And yet, if he didn't hand the information over, Lord know, Dean's stubbornness would, regardless of Sam's apprehension.

"It's uh..." he stopped himself, eyes locked with his brother's. What to do, what to do, what to do? "Um..."

"How's my car, Sam?" Dean was getting more and more serious as his brother tried to find the words that adequately described the state of his brother's most prized possession.

"We're gonna have to buy a new car," Sam said quickly.

The reaction would have been priceless if this were any other day. Dean's whole face dropped into a look of pure shock and bewilderment, before he leapt up from the chair and reached for the file on Sam's desk.

His hand passed through it as if it were nothing but air. He brought his hand to his face and stared at it for a moment, puzzled.

"Astral projection, remember?" Sam said.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean replied, poking his brother again just to make sure he hadn't lost his edge. "Show me my car, man."

If a picture was worth a thousand words, the picture of the Impala would be worth ten times as many, most of them obscenities and some of them graphic depictions of unsavoury acts, but all courtesy of Dean Winchester. The older Winchester stared at the mangled remains of his once beautiful automobile, his face a mixture of emotions, none of them positive. He appered to be hovering on the verge of a nervous breakdown, not from the prospect of being metaphysical. Oh no. That was easy. The thought of returning to a world without his car? Dean's only answer was that there was no world without the car.

"I'm sorry," Sam said, but the words felt foreign in his mouth. Consoling someone after their father had died was one thing. Offering encouragement after the destruction of a car was another, although Dean's reactions to both were pretty much the same. In fact, John Winchester might even receive a little less melodrama in his passing.

His brother slumped back in his chair, the image of the Impala never leaving his mind. This really sucked. The fact that Sam was the only person in the world who could see him didn't even bother him that much anymore, not with the Impala being out of commission. That car had seen him through it all - good times and bad, though mostly good. How could they not be good times with a car as beautiful as that?

Sam went back to reading the report, deciding to let Dean have a few moments of silence in honour of his car. He focused all his attention on the phone records instead, immersing himself back on the case. Missouri had said that everything incriminating had been cleaned out of the Impala. People who were clever enough to do that didn't call 9-1-1 did they? He hoped so. It certainly narrowed the search.

_I stand corrected_, he thought, staring at the first number on the list. It was an unlisted cell phone number, one that even the switchboard couldn't find. The caller was indicated as an 'Unknown Female', and according to the transcript, she was driving past it and saw the whole thing. The rest were all neighbours, and their calls were all documented over the next twenty minutes.

That added another thing to his growing to-do list for after he was released. He would have to go by the police station and ask for the tapes, a task only made more difficult by the fact that all the fake ID's they had left were stolen, quite possibly by that female voice.

"We're going to have to get some new..." Sam looked towards where his brother had been sitting, only to find that Dean had disappeared. He searched the room and the nearby hallway, asking for his brother again, but Dean was gone, vanished into thin air.

He sighed, half-exasperated, half-concerned. On the one hand, Dean always was kind of flighty when there was work to be done. There was no reason he should lose that quality just because he was a metaphysical being. On the other, a disappearance of transcendant Dean could be a disappearance of the non-transcendant one.

A rush of panic ran through him and he fearfully threw back the blankets for a second time that day. "No," he murmured. "Please no..." Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he lowered himself to the floor, nearly losing his footing in the process. His blood ran cold, filling his skull like brain freeze. His breath hitched in his throat, off-setting his balance for a second time. He leaned back on the bed heavily, arm muscles straining to hold up his weight.

_Come on Sam,_ he willed himself, and pushed himself upright again. Staggering on two left feet, he made his way to the door.

Just as he reached for the handle, another force barrelled inside, sending Sam doubling back into the walls. "Oh, God, Sam..." it was Doctor Hutchison by the sounds of it, but the young Winchester couldn't be all that sure. The fast footwork he was forced to employ had him seeing stars. Worse yet, it left him completely and utterly breathless. His cheeks burned crimson and his vision grayed. If he were conscious enough, he would have been thankful Hutchison was there to catch him before he hit the floor.

"You should be resting," Hutchison reprimanded, somehow maintaining a state of calm as he lead the youth back to his bed. His voice wavered slightly, as if he wasn't sure whether he should be furious or supportive of Sam's efforts. In fact, he sounded vaguely paternal.

The thought made Sam's headache burn harder. He felt like he was having a vision, and yet, his mind was blank, focused hard on all the pain inside of him. Hutchison's hands were cold as ice on his bare forearms, and the more he thought about that, the more the psychic part of his brain seemed to activate itself.

His fears were confirmed in a matter of seconds. Just as Hutchison was about to lower him onto the bed, he felt it come on, striking his frazzled mind like a bomb explosion. Sand, sun, and grit filled his consciousness. Heat filled him like a fever and Hutchison's hands were growing more and more frosty on his flesh, sending shivers coursing through him.

He looked around, finding himself alone in a desert that stretched for miles all around him. The only reprieve from the empty landscape was a destroyed settlement, still burning to the ground. Blackened bodies littered the sandy ground, thrown from what had once been their houses. The hair had been burned from their heads and death had frozen their faces into expressions of pure terror and agony. Charred mouths hung open, eyeballs still sizzling from their sockets. Sam's stomach was doing flip-flops from the images he saw. _No, please,_ he begged his thoughts. _Please, I don't want to see this._

Yet there was nothing he could do. His feet walked forward of their own volition, drawing him nearer and nearer to the horrifying scene. He strode past a burning home, sand chaffing his feet as he moved. The heat was excruciating, only growing worse as he neared the flame.

Stopping short, he found himself looming above a pile of soldiers, all of them long dead and burned beyond recognition, just like the others. Their sun burned scalps had been rendered hairless from the fires, and blackened skin moved all the way down their bodies where their uniforms had been stripped clean.

Sam's eyes filled with tears from the smell, the heat, and the sight, yet he couldn't look away. Something held his attention, forcing him to watch, and seconds later, he found out why.

The pile of bodies was moving.

He leapt back. From beneath the carnage, an arm emerged, groping desperately at the sand, trying to pull itself out. After several moments of frantic search, the arm was able to pull the rest of itself out. A shoulder followed, then part of a torso, until finally, a face grunted its way into existence as well.

Hyperventilating in the sand, the body stared upwards into the cloudless sky. The face was somewhat blurry, just as many of his dream faces were, but one thing did stand out in particular. On the front of his uniform, embroidered just above his left pectoral, was a name that burned itself into Sam's mind.

_Hutchison._

Sam gasped back into wakefulness, groaning loudly as the pain in his sinuses crescendoed before subsiding. Hutchison had pushed him back on the bed as the vision overcame him, and had just finished injecting something into the IV port as Sam regained his senses.

Replacing the syringe in his pocket, Hutchison turned his attention back to his patient. He ran his hands up and down Sam's arms in attempt to quell the shivers wrecking the younger man's body. "Breathe, Sam," he said softly. "Just nice and slow, okay? Just breathe."

Whatever drug had been injected was working its magic beautifully. He felt the stiffness in his chest fade and slowly but surely he was able to breathe again. Hutchison ran his hands over Sam's arms, releasing the built up tension and bringing the trembling in his limbs to a halt. Mixed with the medication, Sam felt the attack fade almost as quickly as it came.

"You still with me?"

Sam was used to hearing that question now. Even though be was carrying a serious grudge against reality at the moment, he nodded. He was still here, even if he didn't really want to be.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said, fiddling with his glasses. In all the excitement they had fallen down the bridge of his nose and had been hanging precariously off the tip while Sam struggled to breathe. "I've never induced a panic attack in a patient before. I just wasn't expecting you to be up and walking around."

The young Winchester was barely listening, too spaced out by the vision's aftermath and whatever Hutchison had given him. He took a deep breath, eyelids fluttering, and looked to the doctor.

"What did you give me?" he asked.

"A small dose of Ativan," Hutchison replied, "An anti-anxiety medication. It's a bit of a sedative, so I apologize. You seem pretty adverse to having them."

The younger Winchester pushed himself onto the bed. He tried to lift his legs, but they were pretty much dead weight. Hutchison noticed, and mutely assisted in getting him back under the covers. Sam was thankful he hadn't said anything. Speaking made moments of weakness all the more degrading, and he'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

"Why were you walking around?" the doctor asked, pushing Sam's IV stand back into place and moving the table back to the wall. He cast a wary glance at the subject matter of Sam's research, but didn't press anything. It wasn't fair, with the Ativan and all, to pry into the young Winchester's business.

"I wanted to see my brother again, see if there was any change," he replied. It wasn't a total lie. In fact, Sam was being pretty darn honest by Winchester standards.

"I've been monitoring your brother's case. There hasn't been any change, and if there had been, I would have told you."

Hutchison stared at him sympathetically. Sam couldn't feel the pain of his gaze this time, too consumed by both the drugs and the vision. He glanced at the doctor, meeting the elderly man's sympathetic gaze.

_"Your son is alive..."_

"Doctor, about last night..." Sam began, but was cut off.

"Don't mention it, Sam. Yesterday was a pretty harrowing day for you, I should think. In retrospect I think we should have waited a little longer before reuniting both you and your brother."

Sam recognized Hutchison's tone. Dean would do the same thing whenever Sam tried to have a heart-to-heart. He evaded the touchy subject first, then redirected it back at his younger brother. Focusing on the real focus of the conversation, Sam continued.

"Your son is alive," he said again. "Does that mean anything to you?"

The doctor mouth went slack, temporarily, then tightened again. There wasn't anything to say to the young man except the truth, but for some reason, the truth was holding Doctor Hutchison back. He stared straight through Sam, eyes glistening with unshed tears behind those large glasses of his.

"My son died last month," Hutchison admitted painfully. "At least, that's what the military said."

The dead soldiers reemerged in his memory, swallowed up seconds later by the familiar drowsiness of the drug. Sam swallowed hard and watched Hutchison very carefully. The doctor was looking increasingly melancholic, eyes saddened by the boy in front of him.

"I don't think your son is dead," Sam admitted quietly.

"How would you know that?" Hutchison asked.

"I can't explain it," he replied. Another partial truth, but a necessary one. The last thing he needed was Hutchison transporting him to the psych ward for claiming to be a psychic. "I just...I don't know. I just..."

"Know?" the doctor finished the sentence for him. Sam didn't move. Silence was the best response, and Hutchison understood it perfectly. He nodded shakily, pulling his glasses from his face before cleaning them with the waist of his shirt.

When he put them back on, he seemed ready to speak. "In the past month I have seen four generals, two lieutenants, and a million and a half secretaries on the matter. Lord knows I've written to every official who ever knew him, asking that they recheck the dead. And no one has ever turned up a single dog tag marked with my son's name."

Sam felt his heart sink. Even in his drugged state, his mind still responded to grief in the same way. His heart sank and the lump redeveloped in his throat. Guilt swallowed him up again.

"He was a soldier?" he asked, overstating the obvious, but it gave him a brief reprieve from the neverending guilt trip his oversensitivity was embarking on.

"On the frontlines in Baghdad," Hutchison replied. "I begged him not to go, but apparently, the duties of a soldier are far too great for a father to understand." He sighed deeply. "He went anyways. Wasn't overseas for three months before I get a letter reporting him killed in action."

"I'm sorry," Sam replied.

"Thank you," Hutchison smiled softly, eyes moist now. If not for his glasses, the tears would have fallen clean off his face.

Silence descended upon the room again, more uncomfortable than the last time, even with the Ativan. Sam felt a great swell of pity for Hutchison, and a huge load of guilt for having ever brought up such a sensitive issue. What good was having these 'powers' if all they did was torment people?

Swallowing hard for the second time, having felt the lump return, Sam spoke again. "I don't know why, I just...I just have this feeling..."

"Doctor Hutchison!" a voice bellowed from the hallway. "DOCTOR HUTCHISON!"

The door to Sam's room was thrown open and a middle aged nurse entered hurriedly.

"May I help you, Muriel?" he asked.

"I need you downstairs in the ICU. One of your patients just crashed."

Sam's heart skipped a beat. "Dean..."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Because the last chapter was just a lot of angst, I got straight to work on this one so there were some developments in the plot...and a cliffie. Hopefully I can outrun the pitch forks from the Dean fans long enough to write the next installment.

A little bit of Hutchison's past in this one, including a brief explanation about the son. In case you're wondering, Sam's powers work a little like Missouri's, sometimes by touch, but mostly I was inspired by Stephen King's _The Dead Zone_. Though, not nearly as sensitive as Johnny Smith's abilities. More developments to his abilities later. I think everyone's more focused on Dean right now. As am I.

Expect the next chapter in the next few days. Until then...enjoy!

**Reviews**

**_Spuffyshipper_**: Well then, I wait with bated breath until you are allowed to post. That story idea is very original! I can't wait to see what you do with it! Lord knows I'm not going anywhere.

Yay for school being over! And yes, I am a HUGE Dean/Cassie shipper, though not so much Sam/Sarah. I liked the Dean/Cassie chemistry better, and would like to have her come back and make an appearance. Sarah seemed like any average girl to me, so there probably won't be much of her.

Guys crying is such a humbling scene on camera. Jack Bauer won me over on _24_, House on _House M.D._, and naturally, Dean. I prefer a lot of Dean's more funny lines. I loved that line in _Scarecrow_ at the very end, "Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful." It was just so well placed and Jensen Ackles is amazing with dialogue. I do agree with you though, the heartfelt stuff is wonderful too, especially between Dean and John. There's so little of it, you have to take it as it comes. _Devil's Trap_ was really heart wrenching when the demon taunts the brothers like that.

Also, yes, real life tends to be a lot less melancholic and I don't know why. Probably because it's so hard to tell if it's real or not. Television is scripted and meaningful in the context of the series. Real life can be manipulative. Sorry to read about your ex-bf though. Hope everything's alright now!

**_Pizzapixie_**: I suppose a Sam figure can be arranged. The Impala is still sold separately though unfortunately. Darn action figure companies. I too am very pleased that my writer's block is gone. Now, if only I could keep going with that original fiction. Then life would be just peachy.

**_M.Kena_**: Thanks very much for the private message. I kind of figured 'I' wasn't the only part of your review, but I couldn't be sure. Computers suck these days anyways. You'd think with all the technology we have they'd be able to create some kind of a foolproof system.

Reading _Supernatural_ fanfics is never goofing around! The system cannot possibly work that way because if it does, half my University career was spent goofing around, and my parents don't need to know that.

I never watched _Seventh Heaven_, so I promise nothing. Your message, however, was very touching and humbling for any author. I had to stop halfway through and actually leave the room I was blushing so brightly. I don't feel like I deserve all those comments, it was overwhelming. But I truly appreciate it, because feedback is one of the few things that get me through the day.

I'm very happy to know that you're enjoying the story too! So many people have put their talents towards Post-_Devil's Trap_ stories it's hard to stand out from the crowd. Hopefully, this offers something original. I really worked hard on coming up with a somewhat complex plot, and I can't wait to get into the more sinister aspects of it later.

My story had you not making sense? Your comments have me babbling! Thank you so much!

**_Swasti_**: I don't think there's a force in the world that could destroy Dean Winchester...except the ability to flatline, but I don't know anyone who actually wants to entertain the notion of that right now. I wouldn't put it past Missouri to thwack Dean with something if he doesn't get busy on that whole regaining consciousness thing. Oh, the possibilities.

**_Bally2cute_**: Thank you. I was worried about the chapter. I had spent the day reading one-shots and that was what came out. The balance, I hope, works though. This is a particularly dreary situation the Winchester's have gotten themselves into.

**_Isobel Swan_**: I make no promises, unfortunately. Nothing can be kept sacred so far as I'm concerned.


	9. Last One Standing

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

The dialogue in the italicized section of this chapter is direct from the script of the _Supernatural_ episode 'Scarecrow'.

* * *

Chapter Eight: Last One Standing

The silence in the Des Moines hospital was deafening. Seven o'clock had come and gone, forcing all the visitors out, leaving the hallways deserted say for several night nurses and a few stragglers begging to stay behind. Bright flourescent lights were reflected off the tile, giving the corridor a brilliant irridenscent glow much like the tunnels recounted in near-death experiences.

Missouri had fought hard against the idea for the past hour, but after pacing the length of the surgery waiting room for the umpteenth time, the little patience she had was gone, leaving her open to all sorts of metaphors, morbid or otherwise.

She had seen the blood on the moon before the machines started wailing. Standing in John Winchester's room, a single glance out the window confirmed her worst fears. The moon was, at first, a brilliant shade of aquamarine, casting light of similar colours onto the earth below. The grass surrounding the hospital turned from emerald to black, stained nighttime colours by that perfect raven's eye moon. A vision flickered through his mind, a rapid succession of images and sounds that sent chills rolling down her spine and when she looked back at the moon it was stained bright red.

It was then that the alarms started; first in her mind, where they usually started, and then in the real world, emanating from Dean Winchester's room. Normally, things didn't sneak up on her like that, but human life was so fragile these days, and she had known - deep down, at least - that it was only a matter of time before Dean's grip on the land of the living was starting to slip.

She just hadn't expected it to be so soon.

The once vacant corridors became a nuthouse. Nurses dashed to the room followed closely by fully trained doctors. Orders were shouted back and forth, medical jargon she didn't even try to comprehend. Not that she could if she tried. The only thing she could hear aside for the alarms was her heart pounding in her ears. Blood throbbed in her temples, carrying visions aplenty. A million different futures rushed past her in her mind's eye as they shocked Dean back to life, only to roll him out of the room to surgery a second later. They'd broken at least one of his mending ribs with the defibrilator, but Missouri could sense many more complications that just that.

Hutchison arrived a second later, red in the face from running. Apparently the elevator had been too slow for the near frantic physician, since he had taken the stairs. Missouri rushed after him, demanding to know what the hell was going on, which was a first for her. She hadn't asked that particular question in over thirty years.

"We don't know just yet, you'll have to wait ma'am."

"Like hell I'm gonna wait. Now one of you tell me what's going on with that boy or there's going to be two more patients in this hospital!" she shouted.

"She's the medical proxy on all three of these cases, Muriel," Hutchison reasoned impatiently. "Anything you tell me's going to her anyways, so keep talking."

Muriel shot a dirty look towards Missouri, which, in turn, made her the recipient of an equally dirty look from Hutchison. She rolled her eyes, turned around, and continued on with her commentary. Dean had just crashed out of nowhere, and when they tried to resuscitate him, they'd damaged his healing chest even more. "They've just taken him into surgery," Muriel finished.

Hutchison left Missouri in the waiting room. "Just stay here," he said. "I'll be back when I hear anything."

And with that, he left the room, heading for the OR.

She didn't even bother to take a seat. Drawing on her energy stores, Missouri searched through the psychic energy still lingering in the hospital, holding fast to whatever weak traces of Dean's aura she could possibly find. They fluctuated during the surgery like a dying flame, screaming for something, anything, that could keep him in this world a little longer. The aging psychic called to him as best she could, but it seemed as if Dean had just slipped a little to far, hovering just out of her reach. _Come on, Dean_, she willed him. _Don't you leave us now_.

"Miss Mosley," Doctor Hutchison's voice woke her from her reverie. She turned to him, finding him dressed down in surgical scrubs, standing just outside the door to the operating rooms she had seen him run down an hour ago.

Waltzing towards him, Missouri had a pretty good idea she knew what he was about to say. Even without telepathy, the doctor's expression was grim but hopeful, telling her everything she needed to know.

"He's stable," he said with a sigh, "But we don't know how long he'll stay that way. The internal damage was already extensive. Another rib was broken in the process of resuscitating him. It nearly punctured the lung again. He lost a significant amount of blood and..." Hutchison trailed off, trying to coordinate his thoughts a little bit better. Mossouri was thankful for this. She was getting bombarded with sensory information from the good doctor that even she couldn't make sense of. When he had calmed himself down some, he concluded his diagnosis. "I'd be called an optimist for saying that he'll make it through the night."

Missouri nodded silently.

"He's in recovery right now. I think you should say your good byes as soon as you can."

"Thank you," she replied, staring sadly at the physician. This was causing him a lot more grief than she expected. His thoughts were erratic, leaping from one worst case scenario to the next, leaving him utterly hopeless. Missouri gave a weak smile at him, her wordless way of saying, "Thanks for caring about these boys."

"I think Sam should be there," she said. Hutchison was about to interject, something about the younger Winchester having a panic attack earlier, but she didn't let him finish. "I _know_ Sam should to be there."

The doctor fell silent, and nodded. The next thought that entered his head was perfectly articulated: Hell or high water, Sam would be present and accounted for.

* * *

_"So, can I drop you off somewhere?"_

_The hesitation was evident in Dean's voice, fearful of what the answer might be. He figured Sam would want get to a bus station, hop aboard the next ride out to California and be gone again. The laws of the universe had fucked him over again. Anything Dean Winchester loved was bound to leave him, and it was just as simple as that._

_"No," Sam said suddenly. "I think you're stuck with me."_

_Dean stopped short, blind sided by the response. Out of all the things Sam could have said, that was the last response he'd have ever expected._

_"What made you change your mind?" he asked, only half curious. Dean didn't want to push his luck._

_"I didn't. I still want to find dad," his brother said with a small nod. His voice was laden with that infamous Winchester stubbornness - or stupidity, depending on how someone looked at it. "And you're still a pain in the ass."_

_"Guilty as charged," Dean wanted to say, but held back all his jackass comebacks for when they were on the road and Sam couldn't jump out of the car._

_"But Jess and Mom - they're both gone," Sam's voice grew quiet as the weight of those words pressed down on him. It was a weight he would carry for the rest of his life, Dean knew, the weight of his guilty conscience. It was a burden someone like Sam shouldn't have to bear. He shouldn't be doomed to a life like Sisyphus, rolling a rock up a mountain only to receive no reward at the end of it all. "Dad is God knows where." Another weight. Another boulder in the path of the mighty Sisyphus. "You and me. We're all that's left. So if we're gonna see this through, we're gonna do it together."_

_For a moment, Dean considered hugging his brother. He wanted to take that lanky bastard into his arms and never let him go. Hell, he wanted to march right onto Oprah's stage and jump on the couch like Tom Cruise, shouting to the millions watching, "I love Sam Winchester!"_

_But he was too damn tired to jump on anything at the moment. And hugging Sam in public was a huge 'no-no' in the Winchester Family Rulebook. So he mocked a sniffle and lowered his voice so it would crack in a girlish, 'I just broke up with my boyfriend' way._

_"Hold me Sam," he said. "That was beautiful."_

_He placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, fighting off the urge to embrace the little worm. Sam batted his hand away, and the two started laughing. For a moment they were boys again after a wrestling match, chuckling in spite of their injuries. _

_After all, things were back to being the way they always had been: It was Sam and Dean till the end of the world._

* * *

Hovering somewhere between waking and dreaming, Sam knew he had started to cry. It didn't really surprise him. He'd felt like crying a lot lately, but didn't have the guts to do it with everyone hovering so closely to him. _Good to know nothing's changed_, he thought bitterly, having spent the better part of his life being mothered by someone. Dean, Missouri, the nurses, Hutchison, and even Jess played the part of the matriarch, each one drawn by that invisble aura he carried with him everywhere; the one that seemed to be screaming, "I didn't have a mother."

The memory faded off into oblivion again, leaving only those words behind. "Hold me, Sam. That was beautiful," resonated throughout his psyche, haunting him as he endured another painful wait for news on his brother's condition. While the context of the statement was comical, another attempt for Dean to laugh off life, Sam sensed the more serious nature of the words. Deep down, he knew his brother just needed a hug once in a while, a sign of companionship that they didn't allot themselves time for often enough, and may never get the chance to do so again.

Light streamed in from the door as it opened. Fighting the Ativan's pull, he lifted a hand to his face and wiped away any evidence of his tears as he sat up. His eyes would probably be bloodshot and his face felt cold and clammy, but thankfully all that could be blamed on the drugs Hutchison had pushed instead of his own personal weakness.

Missouri seemed to sense his uneasiness as she walked forward. She left the lights off but the door open, giving herself enough light that she could actually walk into the room without bumping into anything.

"How is he?" Sam asked hopefully, holding his own against the strengthening medications. His body wanted to lay back down, pass out for a couple of months, and maybe wake up when this nightmare was over. He balled his hands into fists, digging his nails into his palms to wake himself up a little more, all the while imaging Dean's body disappearing into a black bag before being shipped off to the morgue.

"The doctors say he might not make it through the night," Missouri said. There was no need for euphemisms of any kind, no need to lie. Sam deserved to know the truth without any cushioning, despite his condition.

A harsh silence hung over the room. The electricity of the atmosphere faded, leaving a cold vacancy in its wake that rendered Sam completely breathless. He felt the walls constrict, suffocating him ever so slowly.

_What did you expect?_ the cynical side of him asked. _You knew that he was critical, Sam. You knew that he might not make it._

There was nothing to say, not even as Hutchison reentered with a wheelchair and a blanket in preparation for Sam to head down to the ICU again. The young Winchester stared sightlessly at the doctor, eyes glassy with fresh tears. He knew that this was going to be good-bye for he and his brother without being told.

"You and me," he remembered saying. " We're all that's left."

_No_, Sam thought. _Pretty soon it'll just be me._

* * *

No one spoke on the way to the Recovery Rooms. Sam sat slumped in the wheelchair, eyes drooping from the Ativan sleepily. Such a look betrayed his insides which were wide awake with life. His heart was pounding in his ears as his thoughts rushed hurriedly from one idea to the next. There had to be something the doctors could do, some miracle drug that mended Dean's shattered body. There had to be a specialist who dealt with such hopeless cases as this, some kind of complex surgery that they could try. This couldn't be the end, not with all they'd seen and done. Dean deserved to go down kicking, as he was in life, not in a hospital, powered by machines.

Missouri put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze. In his mildly drugged state, the warmth from her touch caused him to relax further, sinking deeper into the chair. She trailed her fingers over the back of his neck, through his hair. Given the intensity of the moment, it was a nice gesture, one that Sam responded to. His eyes closed and the tension in his muscles faded, causing him to lean into her fingers.

"Jess..." he whispered involuntarily. She would do the same thing when he was sick, taking his head in her lap and massaging his feverish temples. He'd spent many a night in her arms, lulled to sleep by her fingernails tracing half moons across his scalp.

The psychic pretended not to notice. With Hutchison off in his own little world, waiting for the elevator to stop, she pressed her thumb into the base of Sam's next, loosening the knots he was riddled with. With every movement, the speed of the young Winchester's thoughts decreased, flowing in a more orderly manner. His agitated contemplation about Dean and Jessica became more focused, more controlled.

Sam jerked out of his stupor as the elevator doors opened. Missouri withdrew her hand, listening as his train of thought went back to being that same hurried jumble it had been before. His heart rate increased twice over, and if it weren't for the anti-anxiety meds, his ribs might not have been able to hold it inside him.

"Deep breath," Hutchison warned in a soft whisper. Sam gripped the blanket over his legs tightly, holding the air in his lungs as they passed over the threshold to the ICU. His bones rattled inside his chest, stinging painfully even with the drugs. It pushed him all the harder into consciousness, causing his impatience level to go up. Dean could be dying and he was falling asleep. Useless Wonder strikes again.

Recovery was filled with soft voices. Families huddled behind curtains, willing their ailing relatives into wakefulness with words of comfort. Ironic, Sam thought, that he would be here telling Dean it was alright to stay asleep.

Hutchison stopped short, pulling back the curtains from a lone bed by the right wall of the room. Sam's eyes drifted from the bed in question down the row of orange curtains, all the way down to the metallic doors on the left to the Operating Rooms. The room was not designed for rest and relaxation. It was harshly lit and grotesquely bright, meant to drag the senses back to reality no matter what.

He turned his attention back to the bed. Hutchison stood slightly off to the side, giving Sam a good look at his brother. If it were at all possible, Dean looked worse than he had last night. His skin was a ashen and under the flourescent lights he looked slightly gray. Sweat dripped steadily from his forehead, pooling at his collar bones and streaming onto the bed.

And then there were the tubes. The respirator was still connected, along with the IV, but now two units of blood hung alongside the saline on the stand.

"Apparently they can hear you," Hutchison said. It was a weak attempt at consolation, and the doctor knew it, yet there was nothing else he could say. There wasn't a handbook on what to say to those that were soon to be left behind.

Sam was wide awake and dreaming all at the same time. He was rolled forward and came to a stop at the right side of the bed. Dean's hand rested lightly on the mattress, lined with tubes of saline and blood. Glancing at Missouri, the older psychic needed no explanation. She nodded and remained outside the curtain, allowing Hutchison to close it to give Sam some additional privacy.

_Now for the hard part_, he thought to himself, exhaling heavily. It was funny how even Dean's unconscious form could make him nervous about showing emotion. Awake, he was a powder keg. Show an ounce of feeling and suddenly you were the Anti-Christ. Now, drugged to the eyebrows with anesthetic and God only knows what, Sam still felt the same apprehension when faced with telling Dean how he really felt. Not even his brother's mortality could force him into saying something without seriously considering his words.

"Hey," he said, feeling all the more stupid once he spoke. This was the last conversation he would be having with his brother, and he started it off like some average small talk? Dean would have smacked him across the head. Licking his lips, he restarted exasperatedly. "You really know how to scare the shit out of people."

He laughed softly, humourlessly. There wasn't anything funny about this. His brother's face didn't even move, didn't twitch. He just lay there, still as stone, looking like he was about dead already.

The movies always made the moment seem easy. The shitty made-for-tv movies he was so fond of watching when the nightmares woke him up always included something along these lines. A character fought for life in a hospital bed while another prepared to say good-bye. They'd pause at all the right moments and say all the right things, something Sam had never been good at doing to begin with, least of all in front of his brother.

Closing his eyes, he started to dismiss his inhibitions. The walls that had once been crushing him expanded gradually, giving way to words he didn't even realize he had inside of him.

"I don't want to say good-bye yet," he admitted painfully, feeling his eyes burning with fresh tears. He opened them, allowing small glistening streams to appear on his cheeks as the tears made their way to the ground. "I didn't think I'd have to. You always said you'd go out guns blazing," another weak laugh, "Kicking and screaming the whole way to hell, I think were the exact words." Sam wiped the moisture from his face. "I hate to rain on your parade, big brother, but this doesn't look like 'guns blazing' to me."

Nothing. Not even a muscle spasm. Dean was a corpse. More tears followed, only to be swatted away by the young man.

Gritting his teeth, he rose up from the wheelchair, using the bed for support. His hand was clamped on Dean's wrist, wary of the tubes he might be blocking, tubes that were keeping his brother alive for the time being. Sam tighted his grip on his brother's arm in some futile attempt to hold back the tears that were still falling from his face.

"You can't die on me, Dean," he said softly. "Not here. Not like this. Mom, Dad, Jess...they're all gone now. You are all that I have left."

He locked his fingers with Dean.

"Don't leave me," Sam begged him. His voice cracked, choked by his oncoming sobs. "Please don't leave me all alone, Dean."

The walls of his mind disappeared, giving way to a fresh wave of tears that streamed freely down his face. He lifted his face away from Dean, unable to face the fact that his brother was still just lying there. _Any minute now..._a voice in his head reminded him. Any minute now Dean would wake up. Any minute now he'd give Sam some snappy retort for the uber-chick flick moment they were having together. He'd rant about the woes of day time television and the obvious lack of hot nurses in the hospital. He'd grab Sam in a bear hug that stood for a silent oath never to leave his brother's side again.

Sam looked down. Dean was still just lying there, a complete vegetable, kept alive only by the machines humming, hissing, and beeping around the head of the bed. No amount of heartfelt begging had brought his brother back from the dead.

Sniffling, he sank back into the wheelchair.

"I can't do this alone," he admitted, staring at the floor. "And even if I could, I wouldn't want to. So I'm not saying good-bye, Dean, because this isn't the end."

Nothing. No sound. No movement. He stared longingly at his brother, waiting for the punchline. This joke couldn't last much longer, it was wearing Sam thin. _Come on_, he asked the universe. _Cut me a break. Give me this one thing, please._

But the will of the universe held. Dean just lay there, unmoving, dead already if not for that respirator. Sam felt the pain of his brother's imminent passing hit him full force, lowering onto his shoulders without care or concern for the man underneath it. His eyes burned with unshed tears. His heart ached as if it were breaking in two. The agony even extended down to the depths of his soul, where it fell to pieces and shattered. Tightening his grip on his brother's hand, he fought hard against the words unspoken, the ones working their way in his throat. _I'm sorry Dean. I guess this really is the end._

"No," he whispered. He couldn't be the last one left. This couldn't be it. The universe was a bitch, but it wasn't this shitty...

Was it?

"Good-bye..."

The word popped out before he could stop it in a voice just barely above a whisper. His hand fell away from his brother's, moving immediately to his face to hold back the tears. _God damn you_, he cursed mentally, no one in particular. _God damn you. _

He managed to open his eyes and stared for a long while at the floor. There had to be a way to go back and redo all this; to refill the emptiness inside him; to save the parts of him that would die in this room. Obviously the stained tile was the answer. Sam lifted his head for being so stupid and gave his brother what he promised would be his last look.

At first he thought he was just seeing things. He had to be. Just seconds ago Dean had been as dead as a doornail. But when Sam lifted his eyes, he found that the fingers on his brother's hand were lifting and dropping rhythmically, up and down, like a second pulse. Sam wiped the tears from his eyes frantically, whole body going completely rigid.

"Dean?"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I LOVE JARED PADALECKI'S HAIR. In a recent Cosmo interview he admitted that a female fan pinched his ass in a public interview. I would go straight for the hair if I ever saw him. His coif is gorgeous, just the type you want to run your fingers through any chance you get. And it doesn't matter what role he's in either. As Wade in _House of Wax_, Tom in _Cry Wolf, _or even in that Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen movie he was in (which I didn't see -shifty eyes-) he had the nicester hair in the entertainment industry. Missouri touching it was my vicarious way of getting to lay my hands on his gorgeous locks.

I must admit, I hate myself for this chapter. Halfway through the 'Good-bye' scene I had to turn off my computer and pick it up this morning. I found it really emotional. I just hope it wasn't overly dramatic or worse, not dramatic enough.

HBO aired this mini-series called _Sling and Arrows_ last year, which was a fictional documentation of a Canadian production of _Hamlet_ starring Paul Gross and Rachel McAdams. In the series, Paul does this wonderful monologue when describing the King's speech following Gertrude's death. While I can't remember the exact words, he does mention that by loving someone, we actually make that person a part of our soul, a part of our identity. When they die, we don't necessarily mourn the person themselves, but rather the piece of ourselves that dies with them. That was my biggest inspiration, and while I didn't quote it word-for-word, I hope it was evident underneath.


	10. Welcome to Existence

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Nine: Welcome to Existence

Beyond the white light there was only the emptiness of oblivion. Not that Dean Winchester cared at all. He felt completely at peace in his current state, surrounded by a comfortable warmth he could only describe as his mother's love. It swaddled him like a blanket, concealing him from the world as if he were a baby again, back in the womb, protected by the be-all-end-all, Mary Winchester.

He could feel the sad smile on her face as she touched him, running her hands over his cheeks and brow. "Dean," she managed, struggling to hold back her tears. "My Dean. My precious little boy."

The words were caught in his throat. How many years had he waited for this moment? How many monsters had he fought to attain this kind of Nirvana? How many times had he practised what he was going to say, to do, when he was finally reunited with his mother?

"Mom," he managed at last, only one of many syllables that were working their way out of his throat. _I miss you, Mom. I love you. God, I love you so much. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough. I'm sorry I couldn't get the thing that killed you. I'm sorry I wasn't enough to save you._

Mary Winchester hushed him, taking him into her arms with ease. The embrace filled him so completely, crawling into every crevace of his soul. She was tiny compared to his broad figure, but it didn't matter. He felt like he was four years old again, awakened by a thunderstorm in the middle of the night, crawling into his parents' bed out of fear. This was back before John forbade such signs of sympathy, signs of weakness; back before he was a 'sir', back when he was 'Dad'. Snuggling into his mother's chest, feeling her arms wrapping around his tiny body, he was home. He was whole. He was free.

She placed a delicate kiss on her eldest son's cheek, lingering there for what felt like centuries. Dean's eyes closed, sending more tears streaming down his cheeks. Mary reached up and pushed her head into her shoulder, running her hands down his back. "Don't cry, sweetheart," she said. "Don't cry, it's okay."

He buried his face in her body, holding tightly to her willowy form. Fleeting thoughts entered his mind, beliefs he wanted to entertain because they felt so good. If he never let go again, maybe she wouldn't go away. This moment could keep him as long as it wanted to. Dean never felt so unbroken in his entire life.

"It won't be long now," she said softly. "It won't be long."

"It won't be long till what?" he asked, voice equally as soft. Dean didn't know he could sound so tender. He lifted his head and looked directly at her, finding her face a mirror of his own emotions. She was crying. Even in all her angelic radiance, she was mourning the things to come.

"Till you go back," she whispered painfully, nearly choking on her words.

He narrowed his eyes questioningly. Back? Back where? Back outside the light? "No," he stammered. "No, mom..."

"I'm sorry, Dean," Mary smiled hopefully. Her whole body seemed to glow from the gesture. "It's just not your time, sweetie."

"No, mom," he beseeched tearfully. "No. I don't...I can't..."

"Oh, my poor little boy," her bottom lip quivered. Her finger brushed away his tears, running over the contours of his face. "Please don't cry, Dean."

"Well, gee mom..." the sarcastic retort fell on deaf ears. Dean couldn't bring himself to finish it, not to her. To dad, maybe. To Sam, always. But not to Mary. Not to his Angel of Mercy.

"Your brother needs you right now, Dean, more than ever."

He shook his head. This couldn't be happening. Not here, not now. He turned away from Mary, trying hard not to fall apart. That new sensation of completeness began to fade and he slowly became aware of his body slipping away from him. The dissassociation was frightening to say the least, especially since the luxurious warmth his mother radiated was disappearing, yielding to a ruthless chill that covered every pore on his now aching flesh.

Hyperventilating, Mary offered what little comfort she could. "No Dean, don't fight it. No matter how terrible it is, don't. This is the way it has to be."

Dean watched in horror as the light began to dim. He clung desperately to his mother's arms as the cold swept over his limbs, draining under his skin like liquid nitrogen. With his eyes shut tight, he willed himself to stay, to dream this dream forever.

His mother's hands were hot on his cheeks. "I'm sorry, Dean," she whispered. "I'm so sorry."

The ice exploded inside him, so cold it burned. Unable to hold it in any longer he screamed, eyes opening suddenly, just as the last of the light and his mother faded into darkness.

* * *

Pain. That was the next thing he was aware of. And unlike the past few times he'd been injured, it wasn't centralized. This pain covered every square inch of him, both inside and out.

He moaned softly. It was his only defense against the growing torture that marinated his entire body. Every muscle twitch became an instrument in a grand orchestra of agony, rousing him from the painless oblivion of unconsciousness rather forcefully. Yielding to the command, Dean's eyelids fluttered, drawing him gradually into wakefulness. Even the soft blue light streaming in through the uncovered window assaulted his underused retinas, causing him to shut his eyes tightly. The small gasp that followed was rewarded with a sharp, white hot sting stretching down his throat and into his chest.

As he waited for the attack to pass, he felt a finger stroke his cheek, drawing his attention to a small, cylindrical object just in front of his lips. "Drink some of that, Dean."

His brow lowered and he opened his eyes again. _I know that voice_, he thought, turning his head slightly to face whoever was in his room.

"Missouri?" he asked, voice barely able to go above a whisper. The small utterance alone was enough to warrant a coughing fit, one that felt as if his lungs were working their way up and out through his mouth. Someone had taken a cheese grater to his throat while he slept, and the sensations creeping up through his trachea definitely not appealing.

The psychic took that as a cue to summon the doctor, and pressed the red call button on Dean's bedrail. "Boy, you've had a tube down your throat for the past week. Talking's not the first thing on the to-do list after that."

'_Cuz clearly, I knew this_, he wanted to snap, but opted not to. The coughing fit was coming to an end, and he sank back down on his pillow, disoriented but breathing. Even with his eyes closed, he felt Missouri pressing a straw to his lips again. "Drink some of that," she said. "It'll help."

Lacking the strength to refuse, he parted his cracked lips and took a slow, small sip of whatever was at the base of the straw. Icy cold water dribbled into his mouth, sliding a little too quickly into his throat. He gave a small cough, turning his head away defiently. Swishing the liquid in his mouth till it was warm, he finally swallowed, relishing the soothing sensations lying in its wake. The irritated tissues relaxed slightly, giving him a blissful reprieve from the pain in his esophagus at the very least.

The rest of him was begining to feel oddly muffled by that time, gluey and thick like sludge. Every limb was heavy, weighted down by invisible sand bags that kept him pinned to the bed. His eyelids were entirely immune. They too were afflicted with the same heaviness as the rest of him. They just followed his body's commands a little better than the rest of him.

He looked back at Missouri. "Where...?" there had been more to the statement, but it hadn't made it out of his throat before the coughing started again, his lungs slightly more insistent this time about joining the rest of the world. Groaning, he pushed himself against the mattress, gritting his teeth from the agony of it all.

"What did I say about talking?" her tone was abrasive, but underneath it all she was just looking out for Dean's best interests. He had been under constant sedation since his surgery four days ago, giving his overtaxed body some healing time before the medical staff allowed him to rejoin the world of the living.

Taking a shallow breath, Dean tried opening his eyes again, this time with more success than last. His throat still felt awful, but as long as he kept his inhalations small he could avoid another coughing fit, and the inevitable aggravation of what he knew were cracked ribs. No other injury in the world was so eager to cause a person more misery. _The gift that keeps on giving_, he cursed mentally as he took another breath. Every bone shifted uncomfortably against his muscles, giving him the feeling they were splitting through his skin. He grimaced and turned his senses on anything else except his body.

He rolled his eyes. _Of course_, he groaned, _I'm in a hospital_. The white washed walls were a dead giveaway, even with the machines droning softly in the background. Dean had been in this situation too many times before, both from personal experience and by proxy. He had a sixth sense for the technological wonders keeping him alive and monitoring him: IV, pulse ox, blood pressure cuff, and heart electrodes pulled at his skin in a most irritating manner. Bandages prickled against his skin on various parts of his body, and by the feel of it ventured a guess to say that his condition either was or hadn't been good.

"Take another sip. Doctor's gonna wanna talk to you," Missouri urged him. Dean didn't really feel like drinking. Underneath the dense stuffing that was his respiratory tract, his stomach was doing gymnastics. Nausea passed over him at the thought of drinking. The psychic was insistent, however, and despite his personal qualms with doing so, he had another drink.

Sure enough, his throat thanked him by blessedly shutting the pain up for a few seconds. His stomach, however, wasn't too fond of its newest contents, and responded in kind, lurching unsteadily.

The door to Dean's room hissed open and a very surprised looking doctor stepped inside. The older Winchester gave him an obscure look, brow cocked slightly in confusion. The doctor was tall and lean, over fifty definitely, with an expanding bald spot. A strong wind could have blown him over, and yet something about him seemed so much stronger than that. There was a power within him that made him a little ominous, standing over the bed with that shocked expression on his face.

"This family's going to outlive us all," he said with a sigh, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Dean's brow furrowed again. _Sam_, he thought to himself, and tried to articulate his concerns but only managed to let out another ragged wheeze. Missouri offered him another drink. He cast a disapproving look at the cup, hating it with every fiber of his being. He was so helpless someone had to feed him. Disgusting.

"My name is Doctor Hutchison, Dean, I'm in charge of your family's cases. Are you feeling alright?"

He opened his mouth, but rethought the decision to speak and closed it again. With more strength than he expected it would take, he put his thumb in the air, barely getting his arm an inch off the bed before it fell back down to the blankets.

"Your throat's probably still raw from the intubator. You've been kept under for almost a week, given your condition," Hutchison said with a nod.

He kept his voice low, speaking just barely above a whisper. He sounded like he had a smoker's cough. "Where's my brother?"

"Sam?" the doctor raised a brow slightly. "He's two floors up, resting. He's fine." He shrugged slightly, something that was supposed to comfort Dean. If anything, it only put him more on edge. "I'll send him down a little later, when you're feeling up to it."

Hutchison wasn't trying to be patronizing, but Dean felt slighted at the remark. "I'm feeling up to it now."

_Yeah, that was convincing_, his inner critic chided. He still sounded like the _X-Files'_ Cancer Man, or that creepy kid off _Malcolm in the Middle_, the one in the wheelchair.

"The damage to your body was extensive, Dean. Several cracked ribs - two broken, a punctured lung, a concussion, and some internal trauma we are still unable to diagnose. These aren't things you can rush to recover from."

"What happened?" he asked groggily. The drugs in the IV were offering sweet redemption from the all over pain, making him feel wonderfully light, like a feather pillow. _Oh God, that's beautiful_. It was the nicest thing he felt since...since...

Memories spiralled around his brain. So many of the things he remembered were basked in a white light and a wonderful, comfortable heat. Before that there was a nighttime drive with Sammy and then a dead-end with darkness, and his trip down memory lane came to a sudden stop.

"You were in a car accident ten minutes outside of the city," Hutchison began. "A semi..."

"Dean?"

The door had reopened. Dean didn't even bother to move to see who it was. He knew that shy, pathetic voice from a mile away. It was the same voice that woke him up in the middle of the night as a child with an equally pathetic, "Are you asleep?" "Yeah, Sam. Fast asleep," he would reply, then throw back the blankets on his bed and wait for his scrawny kid brother to crawl in next to him.

Sam pushed his way past Hutchison, needing no introduction to the room at all. His eyes fell upon his brother, searching past all the bumps, bruises, and scratches to find same old Dean he knew and loved. Staring out from behind a still pasty complexion, looking like he had faced down a reaper and lost, was the mighty Dean Winchester. He closed his eyes, basking in how nice it felt to be needed by someone else for a change.

The older Winchester lifted a hand slightly and waved. "Hey Sammy..."

Just like when they were kids, the giddy, goofy, childish grin overtook Sam's features, a outpouring of relief as he stared into his brother's face. And before Dean could stop him, the younger Winchester ran forward and embraced him without any care for who was watching.

The physical pain was excruciating, horrible really. Dean could barely contain himself it was so terrible. Yet being in Sam's arms, those lanky, bony arms that made every fiber of his broken body cry out in anguish, was one of the nicest feelings he'd had in a long time. Better than the painkillers, that were doing their darndest to keep him sane as he brother clung desperately; better than sex, which was one of Dean's favourite stress busters. It was a twisted balance of both pain and pleasure that warranted only one reaction.He gave his brother a single pat on the back, both affectionate and forceful, beseeching him breathlessly, "Sammy...ribs dude."

"Sorry," Sam said, easing his brother back onto the bed. White spots clouded Dean's vision as he gasped for breath. _Best be careful Sammy. Your hugs have military properties_, he thought, coughing instead of laughing at his own private joke.

"Ugh..." Dean replied, swallowing hard at the rawness in the back of his mouth.

"Sam Winchester, I thought you were taking it easy until at least noon," Missouri said, not really shocked with the situation, just concerned that Sam wasn't giving himself enough time to rest.

Dean had already noticed his brother was in a hospital gown, complete with a pair of plainly coloured pyjama pants. A single IV butterfly hung from his bony wrist, branching off into a single injection port. The scratches on Sam's face were healing, barely scarring. Lucky bastard got all the good genetics. Not a single scar after all these years. Well, not a single scar worth talking about anyways. Getting his tonsils and his appendix out certainly didn't make a good story to pick up girls with.

"Well," Missouri said, handing the cup of water off to Sam. "Get him to drink a bit more of that and then you get back to bed, young man. No way you're getting out of here tomorrow without a little more rest. Same goes for you, Dean." He voice was a little darker when dealing with the older Winchester. Not that he noticed. The drugs were kicking in again, coming in forceful waves that he felt himself slowly sink under. No harm done from Sam's bone crushing embrace just moments ago, at least, none that Dean could feel. "Come on, doctor."

Hutchison was about to mention some more tests he had to do, but Missouri was already leading him out the door. He settled on a quick wave and a brief smile before vanishing.

"You wanna tell me what's going on here, Sammy?" he asked.

"It's Sam," his brother said. "But something tells me you're not going to remember this conversation anyways."

"What are you talking about?" he replied groggily, shifting a little on the bed. _Bad idea_, he thought with a grimace. The slightest movement caused him more pain than he expected. Luckily, Mr. Morphine came to his rescue, and his eyelids fluttered tiredly. He reached up for the cup of water in Sam's hand, restrained by the bandages around his arms. Growling, he rolled his eyes again. "Gimme some of that water, dude."

Sam lowered the cup back to his brother's mouth and Dean took another sip. God help the poor bastard who witnessed this event. Dean would hunt down all and any spectators with the same ferocity as he hunted demons. His stomach settled, ribs loosened, and with a deep breath, he sank back into the mattress.

"Where's dad?" he asked softly.

Sam's mouth went dry. Luckily, the morphine had carried Dean far and away before he could think of a good response. He watched his brother's body fall limp, breathing steadily all on his own. He smiled warmly, patting Dean's shoulder comfortingly. "It's good to have you back, Dean," he said softly, and for the moment that was all that mattered.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Alright, so I didn't have the heart to kill Dean. Maybe it was my fear of the Jensen Ackles fanbase, or my personal affiliation with them, or a little bit of both, but in the end, Dean Winchester prevailed. For now, anyways.

The conversation between Dean and Mary popped into my head after watching the episode 'Home' again. She seemed more interested in Sam than Dean in that episode, and I wanted to give them a little time together before he rejoined the land of the living. That and Rascall Flatt's 'What Hurts the Most' kept playing over and over through my head and the moment just seemed to fit.

And a big thank you to all the reviewers! Last chapter was the highest reviewed so far!


	11. Becoming the Hunted

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Ten: Becoming the Hunted

Dean poked at his food idly the next day, eyeing it as he would a predator, wondering how long he could take a swing at it before it leapt off the tray and swallowed up his face. Not that its appearance suggested it would do anything otherwise. Soup wasn't supposed to look like a carniverous life form.

Dropping his spoon onto the tray, he slumped back on the bed.

"You should eat," Sam said without looking at his brother. His eyes were glued to the screen of his laptop. In the wake of his release that morning, he left the hospital only temporarily to wash up and get a change of clothes. Missouri had insisted that he take a nap before heading back to Dean's room, but Sam felt like he'd already wasted enough time on himself. He had to see his brother. "You've had nothing but saline for a week."

"What can I say? Sugar water fills me right up," he chided lifelessly. The usual life and flare Dean backed his sarcasm with was gone, replaced with by a dull, monotonous tone of voice Sam recognized quite well. Dean was angry, brooding about something, something that would probably lead to a fight of some kind between the two.

He closed the screen of his laptop. _May as well get this over with_, he thought.

Wheeling his chair across the room to his brother's bedside, Sam gathered his strength and asked the question that had initiated a thousand arguments and fist fights between the two. "What's up?"

For a moment, his brother looked like he was actually considering an answer to the question. Dean's eyes moved up towards the ceiling in an exaggerated expression of thought, and finally he spoke. "Light fixture, ceiling, sky...take your pick, college boy."

"That's not what I meant," Sam said.

"Yeah, I know what you meant," Dean replied casually. "The answer to that question's just as boring though."

"Something's bothering you."

"Have you seen what they're feeding me?" the older Winchester asked, eyebrows arched incredulously while he pointed a rigid finger at the beige tray the nurse had placed in front of him twenty minutes before. Obviously all of Dean's frustrations were surmised by flesh-eating soup.

Sam stared at his brother seriously, eyes softening in what Dean felt was a most patronizing manner, yet remaining firm on the topic at hand. "Something's up," he said quietly. "What is it?"

"Nothing," Dean shrugged, still not looking at his brother. "Dad's in a coma, car's wrecked, all our shit's gone...other than that though, I'm just peachy. How are you doin', Sam?"

The sarcasm was brutally evident in his voice, and when he turned to face his little brother, it was written there as well. He had his hunting expression on, the mask of stone he hid behind to cover his emotions. There was a flicker of hatred in his stare as the primal natures he relied on to survive surfaced, ignited by the dire situation the brothers had found themselves in. It was moments like this that made Sam wish their father had given them an off-switch for it all. John Winchester had schooled his sons in every art of war he could think of, but never once did he teach them how to relax, let loose for a while, be human. So when troubles came that weren't physical, they immersed themselves in those lessons, Dean especially. He retalliated against emotional trauma the same way he would a poltergeist or a werewolf.

He turned away from Sam again, wincing as the pain in his chest crescendoed once more. The hospital staff were weening him off the morphine, switching it with something weaker as his wounds healed. Exhaling heavily, he straightened his face again. _Baby_, the voice in his head scolded him. _This is nothing. Get your act together, Dean, and stop being such a child_.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Sam asked, knowing that the answer would be 'no', in so many words.

"What's there to talk about," Dean replied. It was a statement, not a question. There really wasn't anything to say. His baby brother had used up all the words that morning when he filled Dean in on their current situation. "How dad's never gonna wake up? How our stuff's gone? What the hell does talking accomplish anyway, Sam? Dad's still gonna be in a coma. The car's still gonna be trashed. And, oh yeah, the colt's _still _gonna be missing. Best to just let sleeping dogs lie in this case."

"We're gonna get through this, Dean," Sam said.

The finality of those words hit Dean like he was being stabbed through the chest. His bottom lip trembled slightly in anger. He tightened his fists, relishing the pain that followed such an exertion.

"We're gonna get through this..." Dean mumbled. "Get through this to what? What's beyond this Sammy? A safe, normal, happy life back in Lawrence? You gonna head back to Stanford for that law interview while I work my ass off at some dead end job so dad can stay on life support?"

Sam's eyes narrowed questioningly, trying to determine what the real cause of his brother's anger was. It couldn't just be his dad's condition. Dean had shifted the focus of his anger back to Sam, back to his goals in life, and whether or not they included Dean.

He sighed. The unspoken frustrations of their relationship were coming back to haunt them now that they were at a crossroad. Painful as it was to admit, Sam had entertained the notion of going back to school once or twice before, but not once since he arrived in the hospital. All his attention had been channelled into his older brother's condition. Even after Dean regained consciousness the day before, he had this idyllic little idea of going back to Lawrence and resting for a few days before carrying on with business as usual.

"Look I don't know any more than you do," Sam said. "I don't know where we're headed after this, but what I do know is that there's still work for us to do, and I'm not going anywhere until it's done."

They regarded each other for a long while, Dean's eyes lax and lazy from the drug cocktail in his IV; Sam's fuelled with the same spirit and determination as his father. He was making his brother a silent promise that he wasn't leaving, not now, not when they needed each other the most.

Dean broke the silence with a mock sniffle. "I love you, Sam," he said, pretending to sob.

Sam swatted his shoulder, "Jerk."

"Bitch," his brother replied with a cocky grin.

* * *

Everything was fuzzy, like he was full of cotton balls. Blood swam in and out of his vision, staining the darkness a faint red colour. He teetered on the edge of consciousness, drifting in and out of awareness for what felt like a lifetime. Not that there was much reason to stay awake. The only thing in his line of vision was the dark ceiling of the Impala, not to mention the ragged breathing drumming loudly in his ears. 

His eyes rolled back in their sockets and he felt the world swim past him again. It was such a strange feeling. Sinking beneath the waves, he was comfortably numb, senseless and oblivious. Rising from them meant dizzying, sickening nausea, like he was spiking a temperature during his worst flu. _Concussion_, his mind diagnosed in an instant, but that thought didn't last very long. It was washed away beneath the dark waves of his consciousness.

He was hurled back into reality a second later when the car door was thrown open and a hand slammed against his throat. Adrenaline surged into his body, loosening the joints and initiating a fight response unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Grabbing hold of the phantom limb choking the life from him, he pulled hard against it, staring wide eyed into the face of his attacker. It was nothing but a shape in the darkness, hidden under a shroud of inky blackness that made it impossible to discern from man or beast.

The grip on his throat froze suddenly, as if it were made entirely out of stone. The body baside him was convulsing as another shadow emerged, rising to the ceiling of the vehicle before descending upon Sam's immobile body.

Heat sweat across his skin like flames. He knew what that shape was. And no amount of force was going to let it take him. With the very last of his strength, he reached down along the side of the car seat and slammed the chair back down, effectively releasing him from the mad man's grasp. Only then did he push a path to the door to get out of the way.

He never made it though. The second his hand touched his attacker, still standing rigidly outside the door, a brilliant flash of white light overtook the entire scene. Sam groaned loudly, his dilated pupils reacting too slowly to it, leaving him temporarily blinded. He fumbled around with his eyes closed for a way out, still feeling the heat against the back of his head as the demon drew nearer. Or was that the light? He couldn't be sure with his eyes closed.

Opening back hiseyes cautiously, he found that the darkness had descended once again. The car door still hung open, and beyond, a body lay prostrate on the road next to them. He coughed, fighting the fatigue that was creeping upon him again. A shiver ran through his body as the adrenaline receeded, giving way to the nausea and dizziness he'd suffered from moments before.

A rush of panic ran through him, and he threw himself back against the chair, inspecting the ceiling of the Impala. It was vacant again, almost as if the demon had never been there. He sighed in relief, allowing himself to relax again. _Just sleep_, he thought. _Just..._

_Footsteps_.

His eyes flew open again. Heels clipped against the gravel, approaching him from the driver's side. Instincts took over again, forcing him to sit up and take a look.

Voices. An alto female was speaking but he couldn't make it out. The words were garbled and slurred, in one ear and out the other. A dark, cloaked figure moved out of the darkness, drawing ever closer to the car door. The moonlight streamed down upon her, giving her the appearance of a demon in the night, say for the glistening pentacle around her neck.

The same pentacle he'd been dreaming about for over a week now.

She spoke again, still not making any sense. Sam was too busy staring at that necklace of hers to care. He knew better than to not panic. Even without being psychic, his hunter's intuition told him this woman was nothing but trouble. Yet he was paralyzed again, drawn to that star on her chest

The woman lifted her head, allowing her hood to fall back. Her flesh was pale, burning blue under the moon, a strong contrast to her jet black hair. Dark eyes burned just as darkly from her face while the rest of her features were nondescript, making her serpentine in appearance.

He groped the seat blindly for a weapon of some kind. The woman smirked coldly, quickening her pace towards him. Just as he grabbed the handle of the colt in his pants pocket, she was standing outside the car door.

She grabbed him by the neck.

* * *

"Sammy?" 

At first he wasn't sure if he was awake or not. It certainly didn't feel that way. He felt strangely detached from his body, shivering from the uncomfortable sensations of pins and needles crawling over his torso. Cold sweat covered his flesh all the way from his scalp to his feet and as he reentered the waking world, he felt nauseous and sick all over again.

"Sam?"

The youngest Winchester jerked awake suddenly, grimacing almost immediately from the headache still rampaging in his forehead. He flopped back into his, having fallen asleep slumped over his brother's bed, something his neck didn't appreciate. The muscles were tense enough from his vivid dreaming without being twisted in every other direction except a comfortable one.

"You okay?" Dean asked, getting his protective edge back after having slept for a few hours. The light outside the window was fading, and the last thing he remembered was finally eating lunch under the watchful eye of his baby brother before waking up and finding Sam in the throes of another nightmare.

"Mmmm...yeah," his brother replied, massaging away the last of his headache. The nausea was not so easy to quell, and he slammed his mouth shut to keep from spilling his lunch all over Dean.

"Still tuned into the other side, Miss Cleo?"

Sam ignored the comment for the time being, still trying to shake off that feeling of being strangled...twice, no less. He cracked his neck, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Dean watched him, expression unreadable, but somewhere beneath the indifferent facade he was truly concerned for his brother.

"You good?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam replied, voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I'm good."

"You sure?" his brother wasn't convinced.

"Yeah. I'm fine."

Dean didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know that Sam was being dismissive for a reason.

"They about anything in particular?"

"I don't know," Sam said. "I can't really remember them."

"Liar," Dean said, rolling his eyes. His baby brother was shit at deception. He always fidgeted, always held his breath. This time he was rubbing his eyes, an action he was using to mask not only his stress levels but brushing the sweat off his brow. Inadvertantly, he was giving away more of his symptoms. His hands were shaking so badly that even pinning them against his body wouldn't hide it.

"They don't make any sense," he said, shaking his head, trying to make sense from what he had just seen. "They don't have any context, like they're all from different times."

Dean was silent, allowing his brother to let it all out. Pushing him at all would allert the sensitive defences Sam constructed over time and end the conversation, for good.

"I don't think this was an accident, Dean," Sam admitted suddenly, shaking his head in horror at what he had just witnessed in his dream. "And I don't think we were supposed to survive."

"What are you talking about?" Dean asked.

Sam told him everything, starting with the dream about the cloaked figureand the demon in the field, describing what little of the conversation he actually remembered. He talked about the woman, her pentacle, and her attackers, trying hard not to stammer as he did so. To stutter was to show fear, and he didn't need his brother thinking he was any more pathetic that he already felt. Finally, he spoke of the dream he'd just had, feeling fear grip him as he realized just how close he'd come to becoming possessed by that...thing.

His brother remained eerily silent throughout the entire confession. Dean wasn't usually so complacent as a listener, but news of the crash changed his mind. He was lost in his thoughts, considering everything Sam had told him.Dean's own memories of that night were still fragmented, nothing but misplaced visuals and sounds that didn't seem to match up. Sam didn't really mention it in their conversation that morning. He had stuck to the basics, not wanting to overload Dean with information so soon after walking up: they had been in a car accident. The Impala was gone. Dean had been critical for the past week, flatlined once and damn near died. Dad was still in a coma and probably wouldn't come out of it.

Naturally, things were never as they seemed. And Sam's dream raised some pretty interesting questions about the nature of their 'accident'.

Silence followed. Neither brother had much to say. They both found the floor extremely interested by that point in time, each one suffering from their own unspoken fears and anxieties. If the demon was still out there, it was probably still hunting them, or worse, hunting other families.

Dean shook his head. "We've got to get out of here," he said, looking like he was about ready to leave. He was inching himself into a sitting position, wincing visibly as he tried to throw off his blankets.

Sam gave his brother a questioning look. "Dean, just a day ago you were breathing through a tube."

"Your point?"

His little brother said nothing, mouth hanging slightly ajar in shock and speechlessness. Dean's stubbornness was going to be the death of him. "You're not going anywhere."

"Like hell I'm not," the older Winchester replied, pushing the blankets down, coming to a stop at his waist. His eyes narrowed in a most curious manner, and he peeked privately under the covers at the area beneath his waist.

"What?" Sam asked.

"Ah, fuck," Dean cursed, rolling his eyes. Trust the doctors to shove a tube in his dick to keep him from going anywhere. In his drugged haze, he hadn't noticed. Piling the blankets back overtop of him, he slumped back against the gurney. Sam could only guess what his brother's problem was, but decided that, given the area in question, he probably didn't want to.

"We gotta get out of this hospital, Sammy," he said hurriedly. "NURSE!"

"Dean, you can barely walk!" Sam interjected.

"NURSE!"

"Dean," Sam stood up and grabbed his brother by the shoulders, trying not to injured him further by restraining him. The older Winchester was staring frantically at the door, waiting to see if any of the hospital personell were responding to his calls. "Dean, look at me. Dean!"

He finally caught his brother's attention. Dean was still pushing against his brother's grip.

"Let go of me, Sam."

"Calm down, Dean."

"Let. Go. Of. Me."

Dean was serious now. Even weakened, Sam would not be able to win in hand to hand combat against his brother, not without causing serious wounds to both parties. He loosened his hands on his brother's shoulders, trying hard to reason with him.

"This is crazy," Sam said.

"What's crazy is sticking around in this hospital any longer," Dean replied, turning his attention back to the door again. "NUR..."

"Dean Matthew and Samuel Francis Winchester," Missouri snapped as she stepped inside the room. Both brothers snapped to attention as if they'd just been shocked with electricity. "What in the blazes do you think you boys are doing? And Sam, let go of your brother. Wrestling's not good for a shattered chest."

Sam did as she asked him, muttering an apology under his breath.

"Now I know you boys are getting cabin fever, and there aren't many attractive nurses in this hospital," her voice went flat, robotic, and her eyes fell directly on Dean, "But that is no reason to want to leave."

"We've got bigger problems," Dean said.

"What kind of problems?"

"Why don't you read Sammy's mind? See what kind of pleasant little dreams he's been having?"

The younger Winchester shot Dean a look, bottom lip pouting a little. Missouri glanced towards Sam, sifting through the information in his brain quickly no matter how hard he tried to deflect her attempts. The boy had talent, no doubts there, but trying to control all that untapped ability was like putting a leash on a wild animal. It didn't just behave over night.

His conscious thoughts were sporadic again, fleeting, and the dreams were with them. Women in robes and cloaks hidden by the night, a helpless victim with her throat slashed, and a demon were just a few of the creatures lurking in Sam's conscious mind at the time. She didn't bother checking the rest, deciding to give the boy some privacy, but she had enough to help them out for the time being.

She closed the door behind her. "Why didn't you tell me about this sooner?"

"You're the psychic," Dean scoffed.

"Don't you get fresh with me, Dean Winchester," she said testingly. Honestly, if she spent every moment reading people's minds she'd never have any time for real conversation.

"I didn't know about it, not till now," Sam replied, cutting off whatever potential altercations might arise from Dean's newfound sense of rebellion and Missouri's demands for respect.

The psychic was quiet, reaching out with her power to the rest of the hospital. Sam couldn't quite describe how or why, but he could feel it like gentle pin pricks on his flesh. The tingling swept over his entire body, passing through him like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Missouri opened her eyes and searched the room, eyeing something only she could see. "Someone's been protecting you boys," she said suddenly. "Someone's been keeping you safe."

Sam looked to Dean, who shrugged, clearly just as or more confused than his brother.

"I don't know why I didn't sense it before," she said suddenly, stepping towards them. "Whoever or whatever helped you on the road conjured a powerful protection spell for you boys. Very powerful. Something only meant for the Divine and the Damned. I've never felt an incantation like this before."

Her eyes narrowed suddenly as she became fully aware of the nature of the conjure. "Oh," she said darkly, shaking her head.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

Missouri pursed her lips, breath hitching in her throat suddenly.

"You boys are safe from the demon," she said, trying to smile despite her nervousness. Both brothers noticed her anxiety as her eyes moved quickly around the room, inspecting the faint outlines of the protection spell that had been placed on them. _There are some things they need to discover for themselves_, she thought. "Now come on Sam. Visiting hours are over. And your brother needs to get some sleep before tomorrow."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

This chapter shouldn't suggest that Dean's only focus is whether or not Sam's going to leave him after they get out of the hospital. He's got plenty on his plate right now, all things considered, and with his brother as his only ally, he's probably pretty worried about what's going to happen when there's no reason for Sam to stick around. Also, at that point, they were under the impression that the accident happened under completely normal circumstances (aside for the missing weapons), something that probably made Dean all the more worried about what Sam's plans for the future were. His dad is not the last thing on his mind right now, and in the upcoming chapters, I'll get into a little bit more about Dean and John rather than just the brotherly love.

The end of this chapter was kind of a whorlwind. I wasn't expecting to divulge into so much information so early on, but I don't want the story to lag in terms of pacing. Thus, the dream sequence, a flashback to those 'black out' periods that even Missouri couldn't peek into.

I know I said that Missouri didn't look into dreams, but by the time she met with the brothers again, the dream had already become conscious thoughts. Technically, it's a loophole. Plus, the brothers would have told her anyways.

And finally, the conjure at the end of the chapter. As powerful as Missouri is, there are forces that exceed even her reach. Her shady explanation for the boys was for three reasons. One, Dean's about to high tail it out of the hospital after spending the week virtually comatose. The last thing she would want is anything bad to happen to them because of his stubborn nature. Two, if the protection spell is so powerful it can go unnoticed by a psychic as seasoned as she is, it's safe to say the boys are out of the demon's reach for the time being. No need for much of an explanation as long as they still have a pulse. And three, Missouri is a character who only gives out information when she needs to. For the most part, she likes to let people discover things for themselves. Like at the end of 'Home', when she didn't tell Sam about his powers directly.

Thank you to Spuffyshipper for Sam's middle name.

I hope this chapter wasn't too confusing for everyone!


	12. Genesis 1:27

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliaties. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Genesis 1:27

Dean Winchester learned the art of flirting from a very early age. The elder Winchester was a natural when it came to dealing with the fairer sex. Unlike Sam, whose awkward grace and little-lost-puppy-eyes attracted attention without any real effort on his part, Dean had more charm, wit, and good looks than anyone could shake a stick at. Women pitied Sam; they worshipped Dean. Waitresses handed him extra bacon (and their phone number) because he earned it with his carefully chosen petnames and good manners. Clubbers exchanged sexual favours for free drinks and the inherent charisma he gave to all females in his company. And nurses, who were required by law to be objective but rarely ever were so, granted his every request like the I-Dream-Of-Jeanie's of the new millenium.

He didn't enjoy it as much though. As a hunter, success was always based on the size of the game and the skill required to attain it. Nurses were easy because their defences were lowered in lieu of their surroundings. Whether he was the patient or living vicariously through Sam's screw ups, nurses were ready and willing to bow to his every command out of nothing but sympathy. While he wasn't complaining, his ego was taken down a couple notches at the thought of winning them over through pathos. It was making a kill when the creature was already injured. There was no sport in it, no game. But, like most situations, there was sometimes no choice either.

_Kind of like now_, he thought to himself as the night nurse entered.

A smile overtook his features when he saw her. Administration was in a really good mood that night, by the looks of it. Last night his nurse was a middle-aged, overweight medic named Muriel. Tonight, it was a twenty-something, curvacious angel named Tara Mason. _There is a God,_ he smirked at the sight of her, eyeing her hungrily. Legs that never seemed to end supported an absolutely flawless torso. Her brilliant ruby hair was tied into a loose bun, leaving loose curls framing her heart shaped face. Bright green eyes, full lips, firm breasts, and a tight ass finished off a near-perfect package. This woman had it all, and for once, the hunter in Dean didn't feel slighted by a challenge in the least. Instead, he counted himself lucky. Flirting with Muriel would be a fate worse than death. Flirting with this lucious creature was both a pleasure and duty as a heterosexual male.

"You come to tuck me in, sweetheart?" he asked, raising a brow as he gave her another once-over.

Tara blushed almost as bright as her hair at the comment. "Are you this charming with all your nurses or just me, Mr. Winchester?"

"Dean," he corrected her. "And if all my nurses are as good looking as you, well, I'm gonna have to seek a second opinion for that doctor who said I didn't die and go to heaven."

The line was so cheesy it almost made him vomit, but it worked like a charm. Tara smirked and rolled her eyes, almost as if she wasn't interested. Unfortunately, the blush sweeping across her face gave her away, especially when it reached the top of her ears and tinted them slightly pink in colour.

"I'm just gonna give you a quick exam," she said with another smile. Every time she looked at him that goofy grin overtook her features, making her so pretty it was painful. _Do you know how hot you are?_ Dean asked her with his intense gaze.

"By all means," he replied with a slight shrug, still focused attentively on her awesome figure. Nobody seemed to realize how easy they were making this for him. Now all he needed was a few more compliments and he was as good as out of the room. "This an 'I show you mine, you show me yours' kind of deal?"

_Please say yes_.

Another grin, this time a little more devilish than before. Her eyes gleamed with a hint of unspoken rebellion. Dean matched her cockiness with his own, returning her smirk just as she reached for the blanket at the foot of the bed and flipped it up, inspecting his nude bottom half.

"Hey!" Dean said, only half surprised. "We haven't even had a first date yet."

She snickered, flipping the blanket back over him, smoothing out the edges around his feet. "What can I say? With lines like yours I can't help myself."

"Oh, helping yourself won't be a problem," he replied, staring her straight in those beautiful green eyes of hers. It was hard to tell her face from her hair anymore. For someone who looked so tough, she certainly went down easily.

"Follow my finger," she said, holding her index finger in front of his face.

"That's not all I'll follow."

"Save some for tomorrow, Romeo."

"The night is young and so am I," he replied, turning his attention from her finger to her face again. "And so are you apparently."

"So is my boyfriend," she answered curtly.

"After all we've been through together?" he feigned a pout.

Another smile, and even a laugh that time. Her fingers moved over his shoulder, pulling up the edges of the bandages to check the state of his injuries. He could barely contain another smirk at the twitching of her lips as she stared at his perfectly toned body. Those glances were hardly those of a girlfriend, or at least a satisfied girlfriend. Dean had seen that expression on too many women over the years to be mistaken about it. She was checking him out.

"How's the pain?" she asked clinically.

"No pain," he replied.

Their eyes met again, hazel meeting green in winner-take-all battle to the finish. Dean didn't let his expression waver. He was back on the hunt, and this time his prey was so much more than the lovely Tara Mason.

She smiled softly, patting him on the shoulder. "I don't actually have a boyfriend."

"No," he said, pretending to be shocked. "Really?"

Tara smirked, feeling vulnerable. She rubbed his shoulder in a comforting manner and took a step back from his bed. "I have to finish my rounds."

"Hey, before you go," he said, stopping her dead in his tracks. _Time to move in for the kill_, he thought to himself. "I gotta ask you something."

"I'm not allowed to date patients," she said with a wicked grin.

"Aw, shucks, you caught me," Dean slumped back down on the bed. "Well in that case, I'll settle on my follow-up question: do you wanna take me to places I've never been before?"

* * *

Despite his neverending faithfulness in his own abilities, Dean would never have expected Tara's reaction to be so adherent to his requests. He expected that, at best, she would remove his catheter and then leave him for the night. Instead, she did one better. After getting one of the doctors to remove the Foley, she retrieved a wheelchair, a blanket, and even Hutchison's blessing with his request to move.

At first, the thought of using a wheelchair appalled him. He wasn't an invalid. And he wasn't in much pain now. After a day of doing absolutely nothing, moving didn't seem like such a terrible thought any longer. Naturally, his body betrayed his wishful thinking and the second he tried to make good on his intentions to get out of bed, the pain sprang upon him mercilessly. His fragile rib cage trembled and shook from the jostling, every bone feeling as if it were splintering and popping out of his flesh in a very instant. He arched his back and grunted, damn near falling back on the bed.

"Whoa, whoa, I got you," Tara said, catching him against her chest. She was strong for someone so lean, able to hold him upright despite his inane jerking about. Any type of response only served to exacerbate his pain as well. Suppressing the coughs sent fire racing up and down his insides, while encouraging them was like coughing up jagged shards of glass, equally if not more painful than the former of the two actions.

"Maybe you should wait," she lowered him back onto the bed. "Your ribs haven't had enough time to heal yet. Tomorrow..."

"No," Dean shook his head, breathing heavily. He sagged against the mattress with absolutely nothing left. No strength, no inhibitions. For the first time in his life, he allowed the walls he built around himself to crumble, and while he loathed his next course of action, it was the only thing he could think of to do.

Breathing heavily, he shot another look towards the beautiful young woman and made his request again. "Please," he beseeched her better judgement. "Please, I have to see him."

She was about to object. It was written all over that pretty face of hers. And yet, somehow, his pathetic begging had done for him what it usually did for Sammy. That soft stare, that magnetic call for sympathy won her over despite whatever reservations she may have had. She sighed and nodded, taking him by the arm again in an effort to lead him towards the wheelchair. "Okay, take a deep breath," she said.

Dean didn't, but wished he had a moment later when she had him almost upright. Taking his arm over her shoulder, she lifted him to his unsteady feet before lowering him into the chair, covering him up with a blanket as quickly as she could to spare him any more indignities. The damage, however, had already been done. Dean was privately chasticizing himself for stooping to Sam's level, and doubt he would ever truly forgive himself for being such a baby.

She walked with him the whole way, stopping outside the door just as he requested her to. "Are you sure you can..."

He grabbed the wheels. "I'm good," he hesitated before adding, "Thanks."

Tara didn't seem convinced, but she knew better than to argue. Hutchison had warned her that both the Winchester boys were stubborn as oxes. Trying to keep them in bed was an exercise in futility. "Just keep the visit short," Hutchison had said with a small, whimsical laugh, eyes fixed on that family photo he had on his desk.

Opening the door for him, Dean wheeled himself forward, hiding all and any sign of discomfort. His shoulders throbbed alongside his burning chest, joints white hot. Still, he rolled himself into the room, stopping short at the foot of the bed.

Tara closed the hospital room door. Only then did he raise his hand and wave to the unmoving figure in the bed.

"Hey dad," he coughed.

John Winchester said nothing. He remained completely immobile, say for the rise and fall of his chest like clockwork. Bandages, sutures, and blood masked his familiar face, but Dean knew his father's presence without eyes. John transcended time and space. He was just as intense and domineering in life as he was comatose.

Wheeling forward, Dean bit down hard on his bottom lip. He could taste blood in his mouth, but ignored it, eyes fixed on his father's large, powerful hand lain casually at his side. Raising his shaking limbs slightly, Dean placed his hand on his dad's nervously, feeling the soft warmth of John Winchester against him. He looked asleep, like he'd nodded off at long last from exhaustion, not comatose as the doctors claimed.

Dean said absolutely nothing, and yet spoke volumes with his eyes. Tears teetered on the edges of his vision, striking his cheeks like acid. Gritting his teeth, he uttered a single obscenity. This was so chick-flick it was nauseating, and Dean knew from experience it was only going to get worse.

He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Maybe there wasn't anything to say, although he doubted it. Times like these were always full of opportune moments to express one's emotions. Sam would have been better at this. He was never speechless. Dean, on the other hand, was a strong believer in the phrase, "Actions speak louder than words," with an added, "As long as those actions are testosterone induced."

With a deep sigh, he settled on a simple smile and a soft whisper. "I love you dad."

* * *

Inside the hallowed halls of Boston's finest all girls' school, twelve year old Anne Sullivan sat awake on her bed, staring frantically towards the door with her eyes wide in terror. Her hands clutched the blankets, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles were white.

For nights now, she'd sat awake like this, able to hear a creature beyond the door in the hallway beyond. It started on Saturday, just as she was about to drift off to sleep. Echoing from the stairwell was the sound of a shrill hiss, one that only seemed to draw nearer as the night wore on. But she was a level headed girl, skeptical at best, and thought nothing of it, until it happened again on Sunday.

That time, she actually got up to check. A quick inspection of the dormitory corridor told her that there was nothing out there, and that the hissing was probably just a figment of her over active imagination. She had been studying awfully hard for her mid terms after all. All she needed was a good night's sleep and she'd be fine.

ButMonday night was also filled with the sounds, as was Tuesday. Believing it to be some kind of sick prank the older girls were playing, Anne marched up and down the hall, listening in on the other dorm rooms to hear any laughter from those responsible. She didn't hear anything but silence and her own ragged breathing. The stair wells were empty and the only sounds coming from the senior dorms was that of pages turning and hushed whispers. Mid terms weren't being kind to them either, but at least they didn't have to deal with the sound of phantom serpents slithering up and down the hall.

Returning to her bed, she slumped over on her side, turning her back to the door. In a few moments she had fallen into a doze, drifting quickly off to sleep, when suddenly she heard the hissing again, and this time, it was right outside the room.

Something struck the door hard, causing her to jump with a shrill scream. Sitting up, she scowled, expecting to hear the sound of her classmates giggling. Instead, there was another knock, this time stronger, enough to make the floor rattle.

Kicking off her blankets, Anne stormed over to her door and threw it open. "What do you...?"

The hallway was empty.

Stunned, she cast a nervous glance back and forth, checking to see if anyone was trying to hide. The rest of the dormitory was quiet, sleeping for the night. Rolling her eyes at the misfortune of being the butt end of the joke - yet again - she closed her door quietly and traipsed back to bed.

After that, there was silence, but she slept fitfully anyways. Her dreams were filled with snakes that coiled around her, crushing the life out of her until she breathed her very last breath.

Now, it was Wednesday, and already the hissing had started beyond the door. She had made sure to lock it tonight and sat in suspense as to what was about to happen. Starting at the stair well, as usual, the hissing resonated down the hall in lord, shrill strokes, each one taking on a likeness to the sound of her name. "_Anne...Anne...Anne..._" they breathed, summoning her outside. Trembling, frightened, and alone, she did the only thing she could think of doing at that particular moment. She grabbed the phone off the desk and punched in her sister's extension.

The hissing was getting closer. "Come on..." she whispered. "Come on, pick up...pick up!"

It took two rings, the longest twenty seconds of her life, and finally, her sister answered. "Anne?"

"James," she said, voice cracking out of fear.

"Anne, are you alright?"

"There's something in the hallway," she whispered on the verge of tears. The hissing was now mere inches from her door. "There something..."

SLAM!

Anne shrieked as whatever was outside struck her door again. This time, however, it wasn't just a knock. Something had grabbed the handle and was shaking it frantically, trying to get inside.  
"ANNE!" her sister shouted. She too was on the verge of hysterics.

Anne forgot all about the phone, she let out another scream as something hit the door again.

Two floors up in her own dorm room, James Sullivan threw the phone down and took off in a run, bolting down the stairs like a bat out of hell. The sound of her sister's tortured scream replayed itself in her mind, drowning out the sounds of her racing heart throbbing in her ears. She nearly tackled three other girls to the floor in her fervour, not even bothering to apologize for the action. No apology was necessary. She had better things to do.

She took the stairs too at a time, leaping the rest of the distance before coming to a crashing halt outside the middle school dormitories. Without any care or concern for girls who might have been sleeping, she threw open the door, nearly shattering the window with the amount of force backing up the action, and flew down the hall to his sister's room.

The corridor was empty, and Anne's door was slightly ajar. Using her teeth, she pulled off her gloves and burst into the room, flicking the light switch as she did so.

Her sister's blankets were curled up on the floor and a cold wind blustered in from the outside. James raced towards them, tossing them aside only to find they concealed nothing but floor. Aside from her, the room was completely empty.

"Anne?" she asked the vacant space. Her only answer was the whistling wind. "ANNE!"

A million miles away, Sam Winchester was waking up.

* * *

The screen of the laptop was fairly dim in the darkened hotel room, casting ominous shadows in every nook and cranny. Sam didn't seem to mind though. This wasn't his first time sitting awake in the middle of the night, staring blankly into a computer screen as a sad means of distraction. Usually, he jumped on the chance to watch television instead, insisting rather foolishly that he would eventually fall back asleep in boredom. But fear and restlessness made a powerful cocktail, so instead of lulling him back into dreamland, the infomercials had the opposite effect on him and actually worked as a stimulant.

What was particularly amusing about his sleeplessness that night was that he had actually been forced into taking something to remedy it. In the wake of his release, Hutchison had written up a prescription for Valium to be taken as necessary, commenting on the sporadic nature of Sam's vitals while he slept. After eating his fill of Chinese food for dinner, Missouri told him to take at least one, just to soften his edge a little bit, and she didn't take no for an answer.

At first, the pill had worked like a dream. Within five minutes he found himself sinking lower and lower on the bed. In ten, his eyes had closed, and by the fifteen minute mark he was completely asleep, unconsciously snuggling into the hotel pillows as Missouri ruffled his hair one more time. She retreated shortly after, heading into her own room next door where she could monitor whatever psychic energy passed through the boy's head. With the defences in his mind lowered, visions could pass through almost undetected by the young psychic.

Until the one about the little girl. And then Sam snapped awake in a cold sweat, frozen to his bed with fear. Cold sweat clung to every inch of his body, sending tremors up and down his limbs. The muscles in his arms and legs ached even as they stilled, causing him to visibly wince and moan quietly in pain.

When he found the ability to move again, his first response was to roll over and curl into a fetal position. His chest was still tight, making breathing a bit more a strain with his legs bent up close by, but at least he felt some semblance of control like that. He shook off the sweat, wiping it from his face and onto the pillow. Leaving his clammy palm over his eyes for a moment, he tried to calm himself down. _Breathe slowly_, the age old yoga classes said. _Breathe..._

The sound of the little girl shrieking interrupted him, and he gave up. Rising shakily from the bed, he found that he was even more exhausted than he was when he arrived. Hunched over, feeling sick and feeble, he stumbled into the bathroom. He left the lights off and splashed some cold water on his face, running his hands along the back of his neck slowly to ease some of the tension he found there.

_This sucks_.

Inevitably, he was too tired to go back to sleep after that. Even if he had the urge to do so, the fear of seeing that girl again was too much for him. He sat, exhausted as he ever had been, staring into the screen of his computer, surfing the Internet for information on serpent demons.

Lord, there were so many of them. He'd forgotten over time just how generalized the symbol of the snake was in evil. Most of the time, the prey had been spirits and other creatures, things that were ridiculously low level when compared to a demon. Now that they were hunting something so high in the hierarchy of evil, it was getting much harder to narrow down the list. Nearly every culture in the world associated the serpent with evil. Christinity and Judaism dictated that the serpent was the form Lucifer assumed when he entered the Garden of Eden and tempted Eve. The devil also chose this form when Jesus was walking through the desert. Countless other sects employed the snake as a form of worship, using snake handling as a symbol for overcoming temptation.

But the snake wasn't just Lucifer's trademark. Asmodai, the mythological chief of all demons, was constant alluded to be a serpentine demon. Fiction often depicted him in the form of an adder, one of the most feared snakes in the world. Lilith, too, had been depicted countless times as a hermaphroditic snake charmer. John Collier's painting 'Lilith' portrayed her as a curvacious blonde haired woman with a python wrapped round her leg, circling her body until its head rested lovingly on her shoulder. The fact that she was also fabled to have mated with Asmodai was also convincing.

Sam rubbed his eyes, still feeling the Valium's gentle pull on his senses. Yet every time he sank close to sleep, the girl's screams roused him again. He used the adrenaline rush to fuel his searches through Lilith mythology, getting very ambitious because of her roots in the Jewish faith. Hebrew characters ran rampant on websites devoted entirely to the woman, some hailing her as a Goddess, the poster child for female empowerment, while others revealed her to be a succubus, a female demon who seduced men in their dreams. She was blamed for causing wet dreams in males, especially monks, and like most succubi, collected seman from her victims to impregnate women. Many times, the offspring of such 'unions' became more susceptible to demon influence.

_"They got in the way of my plans. The plans for you, and all the children like you."_

The voice of his possessed father chilled him to the bone, sending shivers throughout his body. In a moment of panic, he backed away from the website, and headed back to Google, searching for the words, 'Boston Private All Girls Schools'. Even if he wasn't able to rush out, guns blazing, he could at least get ready for when he and Dean could actually leave town.

Immediately, there was a match. Saint Mary's Academy was an all girl's seminary school resting on the outskirts of Boston. He clicked on the link, forwarded to a highly stylized home page. The top margin was a skyscape of the campus photographed at noon in spummer time when the trees were in full bloom and filled with bright sunlight. The ancient buildings had been constructed sometime in the late eighteenth century, according to the small introduction at the top of the page. On the left was a menu listed neatly in cursive with links to all sorts of information about the school.

He was about to click on the first one when the phone rang. After spending an hour in almost complete silent, the shrill sound almost caused him to jump out of his skin. Sam leapt back in the chair, hands shaking unsteadily in a mix of fatigue and surprise. After a second ring he managed to cross the room, slide over the bed (gently, of course. His body was still a little tender) and grab the phone receiver.

There wasn't time for hello. Missouri's voice was both gentle and firm.

"Sam - the girl is fine." Her tone said it all. Yes, she understood that he was concerned about the havok the demon was reaping but no, she wasn't going to let him agonize about it all night. Not when he was in dire need of a good night's sleep. "I promise, everything's going to work out, you'll see. Now turn off that computer, pop another of those pills, and get some shut eye."

He smiled, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Missouri was a double edged sword in his opinion. On the one hand, her help was appreciated. Sam knew he couldn't face this alone, not with his sanity in tact. On the other, she always seemed to live under the mantra that people didn't want the truth, they just wanted good news. It made her assurances of safety hard to believe, even though Sam trusted her completely.

"Good night, Missouri," he said with a sigh.

"Good night, Sam."

She hung up the phone. Sam followed suit, glancing back over his shoulder at the computer screen. The faces of the all girls' academy smiled forever on the Internet, every one of them clad in the same blue and white uniforms, each one a future Ivy leager.

He got up and moved over to the computer, deciding to check one last thing before he followed Missouri's friendly advice. Double clicking the link for 2006 Alumni, he found himself staring a brief history of the Academy, followed by a multitude of photographs. St Mary's was an anomaly among schools. It offered classes from middle school all the way to undergraduate programs in University, providing entirely new breeds of pre-law and pre-med courses, stuff that made Stanford look like kindergarten.

Feeling a little indequate, even with his free rides throughout post-secondary, he scrolled downward. Class pictures followed, each photo filled with at least thirty or so girls all clad in the same east coast excellence. They sat like finishing school graduates: knees together, shoulders back, chins up, eyes focused, smiles faked in such a genuine manner they looked almost real. Beneath it was a small caption of names, listing off the girls from top left to bottom right. "Pre-Law Graduates." They all looked so young, to Sam, like little girls in their mother's clothing. These weren't the future female leaders of the free world. They were just playing dress up.

The Arts students followed, making this school seem another million miles away from anything real. They were clad in the same type of splendor, this time with a different crest on their blazers. Sam searched the names, but couldn't find who he was looking for. There seemed to be plenty of 'Jamie's in the school. No 'James'.

Another photograph. "Pre-Med" was next. Same uniforms, same looks, same girls for all Sam knew. He went straight for the names, eyeing the list hungrily for just one hit on his mystery woman.

Madeline Beaumont, Rachel Reed, Georgia Henley, Dinah Gordon...no, no, no, no...

Kimberly Raymond, Angela O'Neill, Helena Cormac...

James Sullivan.

His heart leapt. The only 'J' name in the whole bloody picture. He counted out the names to find her in the picture. _Third from the left, middle row_, he thought, counting out the girls in the photo until he landed on her.

The dream image was clear now in his head as he stared into her face. Artificial blonde hair draped around her shoulders, gleaming gold in the afternoon sunlight streaming down on her. The pixel count was so small he could even make out her eyes, brown orbs that gleamed with happiness as she stared into the camera. She was dinstinctly Saxon in appearance with a smooth brow and long nose.Her qualities seemed mixed and matched, a blend ofthe British Isles, but shewore tall her qualitiesquite well. She possessed a wisdom beyond her twenty-something years of age, a secret that only she possessed about the way the world worked for wealthy women like her.

He sighed and sank back in the chair. _Well_, he thought to himself. _At least I know what I'm looking for._

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Genesis 1:27: "So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them."

I don't believe that Missouri would lie to Sam. Despite the fact that she typically sticks to good news, she wouldn't just lie to them, not when a life was at stake. She is being dismissive not only because she knows better but because she knows Sam needs better.

This chapter took me a couple of revisions to finally get right. I wanted to have Dean see John at some point, knowing that while Sam is more concerned about his brother, Dean would more than likely be equally concerned about his dad. Also, I really wanted to get the story started so within the next couple chapter the road trip can restart and the Winchester's can get back to what they do best.


	13. On The Demon's Trail

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amazteur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twelve: On The Demon's Trail

Dean Winchester had just barely been awake for five minutes when Sam appeared in his hospital room. The younger brother didn't even wait to close the door before stating, quite curtly, "We have to go to Boston."

"You wanna run that by me again, college boy?" Dean asked, still a little groggy from the night before. He spent over an hour in his father's room in silent vigil over John's body before being dragged back to bed by Tara. He fell asleep quickly, but was haunted by dreams of the past. The fire, the funeral, the fighting...everything emerged with shocking clarity, as if he were reliving the events all over again. Awakening in a cold sweat, he underwent a quick examination at the hands of his favourite nurse, feeling vaguely naked under her ministrations. Tara's overly sympathetic gaze made his insides churn, making any sort of sexual inuendos impossible. His mouth went dry as a lump developed in his throat. _Disgusting_, he spat at himself mentally. Luckily, she left quickly, promising to send a nurse in with his daily round of painkillers, antibiotics, and (much to Dean's chagrin) another hospital breakfast.

Sam took his brother's rhetorical question as an invitation to come in, sit down, and make himself comfortable. It looked like he needed it too. Dark circles surrounded Sam's sad, puppy dog eyes, causing the orbs to look like they were popping out of their sockets. His skin was pasty and grayish in colour, while his hair hung in thick knots across his scalp, looking like he had just spent the night rolling around under the sheets. Dean wouldn't have been surprised if Sam were in nothing but his t-shirt and boxer shorts, not bothering to take the time to dress before making a frantic trip to the hospital. He didn't have be psychic. Sam hadn't slept a wink last night.

_Nice to know some things haven't changed_, he thought with a sigh.

Setting the laptop on the table in front of Dean, Sam pulled open the screen. As the computer booted to life, an Internet Explorer window appeared on screen. The site was for the Boston Herald, and the headline read, _Local Woman Dies in Tragic Car Accident: Twenty-One year old Lorelei Blakely was killed instantly when a car collided with the driver's side of her vehicle in downtown Boston. _Underneath was a school photograph of Blakely dressed in her uniform, smiling placidly into the camera. She was a good looking girl, slightly Asian in appearance, with long, glossy black hair and dark, slanted eyes. Her petite figure was accented perfectly by the clean cut blazer and skirt she was wearing.

Dean read and re-read the title and caption, cocking a brow at Sam's logic. Surely his brother hadn't struck his head that hard in the accident. Then again, stranger things had happened. Maybe Sam had broken under the stress of it all and started seeing things that weren't really there.

"You might wanna let that doctor take another look at you head, Sam," he said, brows arched in the form of a question: Are you crazy, bro?

His little brother ignored the comment, obviously not in the mood for banter. Not that Dean blamed him. Sam looked like he was about ready to collapse right then and there. The younger Winchester settled instead on continuing his explanation. "This article was published three months ago in the Herald, just two weeks after..." he opened up another window, showing yet another newspaper article, this time from the Boston Globe, "This."

_Boating Accident Claims the Lives of Two Local Girls: Fifteen year old Patricia Jenkins and Victoria Swanson drowned after their boat capsized._

"Sammy, I..."

"A week before that," Sam opened another window. Boston Globe again. _Local Girl Commits Suicide: Seventeen year old Mary Whitman hangs herself in her parents' basement_. "A month before that," another window, another death. Dean became away that the task bar at the base of the screen was filled with windows just like this one, each of them newspaper articles originating in Boston, and each depicting another young woman's death. Normally, Dean would have been immediately interested with such a pattern. Deaths that were gender biased deaths were a big tip off to supernatural activity. Unfortunately, each of these young women had been killed under normal circumstances: accidents, stunts, and suicides...typical teenage melodrama that knew no concept of gender. Stuff like that happened just as much, if not more often, to men.

"One hundred-fifty deaths over the course often years. Every victim was a young female, aged thirteen to twenty-four, and every single one of them were students of this school," Sam opened up the last window, showing the home page of a Boston all girl's institution known as St. Mary's Academy. The uniforms in the photographs were a direct match to the school pictures from the articles: navy blazer, blue and white plaid skirt, white blouse, and bright gold crest showing their affiliation.

Dean shot another look to his brother, still seriously questioning Sam's grip of reality at the present time. Eighteen years spent living in fear of the monsters in the dark would be taxing on anyone's psyche. The crash could have been the straw that broke the donkey's back, or in this case, Sam's sanity, giving way to paranoid delusions that the demons really were everywhere and anywhere.

"How much sleep did you get last night, Sam?" he asked with genuine concern this time. Normally, interrogations about his brother's sleeping habits were blamed entirely on the need to keep his brother sharp and allert. Lately though, he would monitor his baby brother at night a little more closely, not only for his own well being, but more importantly, for Sam's.

The question hadn't been what Sam was expecting. He shrugged sheepishly. "A couple hours."

"Was that before or after you started looking for these dead girls?"

Sam's mouth went dry. The conversation topic had taken the one turn he didn't want it to take. He stared long and hard at his brother, unsure of how to respond to that question without arrousing suspicion. After Missouri's phone call and his quick online search, he really had tried to go back to sleep. But after spending another hour tossing and turning under the blankets, he abandoned all hope of ever doing so and returned to his computer, examining article after article relating to St. Mary's. Apparently, the school had an unfortunate history of killing its students, sometimes decades before they ever graduated.

"You having more nightmares?" Dean asked, though it really was more of a statement than a question. He already knew what the answer would be. And even if he didn't know before, Sam's silence told him everything he needed to know. "Sam? What did you see?"

"I saw a girl get taken by a demon," he replied softly. "At least, I think she was taken. She just sort of...vanished."

"Vanished," Dean reiterated the last word of Sam's clipped explanation if for no other reason than to keep up with everything that he was being told. Part of him really wanted to press the call button, get his brother some kind of help. But another part, a larger part, knew that Sam wasn't out of his mind and that his suspicions were sound. Something was going on at this school. Maybe not demonic, but definitely something they should look into.

Sam clicked open another window.

_Young Girl Kidnapped from Boston's Finest Prep School_

_Twelve year old Anne Marie Sullivan disappeared last night from her dorm room in St. Mary's Academy, where she had been attending school at a tenth grade level. The current investigation into her whereabouts is underway, although thus far authorities have yet to come up with any sort of conclusive evidence._

_According to reports, Anne's last recorded phone conversation was to her older sister, James Sullivan, a fellow St. Mary's student in her graduating year. James was unavailable to comment on her sister's whereabouts at this time, but her statement to police claimed that he sister had been frantic when she called, saying that there had been someone lurking outside her dorm room just moments before her apparent abduction. Anne's father Robert Sullivan also maintains that he has no comment for the reporters as of yet._

_An over achiever by nature, Anne was accepted to St. Mary's just this year, after skipping two grades in the public school system. She was known by her classmates as a dedicated student and a charming, charismatic young girl with dreams of becoming a doctor like her older sister. She had no known enemies, and the family remains well liked throughout the community._

_"We have dedicated all our resources towards this case," Chief of Police Peter Lansbury stated at the press conference this morning. "The Sullivan family has had enough tragedy in its lifetime already, and this is one story we're hoping to give a happy ending."_

_The tragedy he is refering to is the unfortunate death of Amanda Sullivan, Robert Sullivan's first wife, twenty years ago in a house fire that nearly claimed the life of his then infant daughter James._

_"This is dispicable," Lansbury states, "And it will not be tolerated. The parties responsible will be punished to the highest degree."_

"Look, I know how this sounds," Sam was rubbing his eyes tiredly, as if keeping them open were a strain. Dean wasn't at all surprised. Every other muscle in his brother's body was lax and lifeless, held together by nothing else besides the fraying edges of Sam's iron resolve. Dean half expected him to fall to pieces in the chair and splatter across the floor. The past weeks had to be taking their toll. "But there is something going on here. Over one hundred girls, all attending the same school and all around the same ages? That's not coincidence, Dean."

"Yeah, well, I'm just not sure how much of this is coincidence and how much of it is your insanity talking, Miss Cleo."

"This can't be a coincidence," Sam shook his head. "I checked the weather databases and every newspaper in the area. Paranormal occurances have overshadowed every single one of these deaths. Livestock deaths in the surrounding areas, religious statues crying tears of blood, electrical storms, temperature fluctuations..."

"Except that these aren't infants, Sam, and they're definitely not families," Dean argued pointedly. "Whoever or whatever this is isn't our problem right now, not with that demon still out there lookin' for us."

_Now who's paranoid?_

"We gotta kill this thing, Sam," Dean's voice was quiet, but powerful nonetheless. His words struck Sam deep down in his core. "He killed mom, he pretty much killed dad and damn near took both of us in the process. Sucks to be those girls, but this is the only hunt I care about right now."

Sam had never seen Dean so callous before. Sure, the older of the two was a real hard ass, but he was always willing to bust his ass to save lives. This was a completely different side of his brother, the one pushed to the limits of human endurance. He put on his blinders to the rest of the world, driven only by the thought of killing that thing that robbed him of a mother, a father, and a childhood.

He kept his mouth shut out of respect for his older brother, and leaned forward in his seat to click open the last newspaper article. Dean inspected it quickly, mouth pursed into a thin line, until he realized exactly what it meant. His blood chilled at the headline, heart racing at the implications of the article. Every limb felt cold and hot all at the same time, and he, though he couldn't be sure, he was fairly certain it caused him to stop breathing as he read through it.

Sam stared at his brother's face. His last defence wasn't a low blow. It was the cold hard truth, one the two were forced to face on a regular basis. Except that this one hit very close to home.

"The newspaper was filled with articles about strange cattle deaths and weather phenomena when it happened," he said, eyes never leaving his brother. "Same as Lawrence, same as Salvation, and last night they restarted an hour or two after the sister disappeared. You're right. This could be completely unrelated, but if it isn't we could end this once and for all."

The door hissed open, announcing the arrival of another nurse. The youthful brunette was uncapping syringes as she walked over to the bed, concentrating on the task at hand instead of conversation with the patient.

Dean snapped out his reverie when she reached for his IV. He pulled the stand from her, his eyes never leaving the computer screen.

"Mr. Winchester," she said with a kind smile. "It's just your daily dose of medication."

"Don't need 'em. I want you to bring me an AMA. I'm checking out of this hell hole."

"I really think you should check with your doctor..."

"Signing out against medical advice usually means you do it without medical advice," Dean snapped. "Now go get me those forms."

The nurse was stunned, but didn't dare disobey him. Dean was a time bomb getting ready to go off. She put the syringes back into her scrubs and walked out of the room. The older Winchester turned his attention onto his little brother. "Call the bus depot and book two tickets on the next trip to Boston."

"Flying would be faster."

"Can you afford plane tickets?" Dean demanded sarcastically. "Borrow enough money from Missouri to get us the hell out of here. We'll pay her back later. Besides, if the timeline's right, we have six days to find this thing before it disappears again."

"This girl could be dead by then," Sam interjected.

"Chances are she's probably already dead, Sam," Dean said firmly. He shifted his gaze to the door. "Now where the hell is that doctor?"

* * *

**Excerpt from the _Boston Herald_**

_January 25th, 1985_

_Boston Socialite Dies in House Fire_

_One of Boston's most well known socialites, Amanda Sullivan, passed away this morning in an unfortunate house fire. The blaze originated in the Sullivan's nursery and nearly claimed the life of her husband and six month old daughter in the process._

_The cause is still yet unknown, though authorities are convinced the fire was the result of faulty wiring. An investigation into the matter is underway._

_Amanda Sullivan is remembered by her husband, Robert Sullivan, and her beloved infant daughter, James Miranda._

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay?"

Dean grunted in response, rolling his eyes at the question. It was the only words Sam had in his vocabulary since he'd signed the damn AMA and staggered out his hospital room. Wearing some clean hospital scrubs and Sam's coat, Dean could only assume his appearance warranted the question. He certainly didn't feel okay. His chest felt like it was filled with molten rock, so thick and syropy every breath was a strain. Not to mention the feeling of red hot pokers being driven into every joint, especially those on his underused legs. He kept having flashbacks of his torture at the hands of the Benders, something that made the whole experience that much more annoying.

But somehow, he managed to keep walking all by himself, even though Sam kept making twitchy movements in his direction, silently insistant that he help his older brother. "I'm good, bro. Seriously, I'm good."

_Liar_, Sam wanted to snap, but kept his mouth shut. He remained within helping distance, just in case Dean's nearly atrophied leg muscles decided to give out, which could have been at any minute. His brother was already hunched over, sounding like he was breathing water instead of air, and muttering obscenities with every step.

They came to a halt outside John Winchester's door, where Missouri was standing, looking very unsurprised and unimpressed that the brothers arrived together.

"Well, you two boys make a fine pair," she commented lightly. The Winchester brothers certainly did. Sam looked like a sedated raccoon, while Dean was a off-balanced cherry tomato. _And these two are the last stronghold against evil,_ Missouri thought with a wild smirk. She moved out of the doorway and allowed them to come inside their father's room.

Dean staggered past his brother, groanined as he did so from how tight his chest had become. Missouri stopped him though. "Gimme that prescription the doctor gave me first. You're gonna need it filled before you hit the road."

He pulled the crumpled slip of paper out of his pocket and placed it into her outstretched hand. She nodded and allowed him to go sit in the chair by his father's bed.

"I take it you're going to Boston then," she moved around to the other side of the bed. Neither brother said anything. Their silence was enough of an answer. "Bus tickets are on the night table. And before you say it you don't owe me anything. Consider it a belated favour to your father, and to this girl you're planning on saving."

"She's alive?" Sam asked hopefully.

Missouri shrugged. "I just don't know, Sam. The bus leaves at noon though, putting you in Boston by Friday. And before you ask, I brought whatever I could get through airport security on the way here. It's not much, but it's your father's."

"Thanks," Sam said. "For everything."

"Anytime," she replied with a small sigh.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Uh oh...looks like Sam struck demonic gold. He's gonna need to catch up on his beauty sleep though. And brush out his oh-so-pretty hair.

Under any normal circumstances, Sam would never have pushed for his brother to leave the hospital. But every time I wrote the chapter with Sam heading off by himself, I didn't think it was right. With Dean obviously recovering, being so concerned for his father, and hugely involved in the extermination of the demon, it seemed only natural that they go together regardless of their injuries. Besides, Dr. Sam's there to take care of him. How bad could it possibly be?

Also, one of the questions that will undoubtedly be brought up is why John Winchester didn't notice all the demonic activity surrounding Boston sooner. My answer is that he was probably looking for a specific pattern of events, and that the demons associated with the other girls' deaths have different signs of their coming. The 'Winchester Demon' has a week of tell-tale signs that John would look for instead of others.

I wanted to apologize as well. When I responded to reviews last time, I forgot the one fundamental phrase that I never should have neglected: Thank you to everyone who left them. I really, truly appreciate it.

**Reviews**

**_Nate and Jake_**: Both boys are beautiful. I do prefer Jared if for no other reason than his gorgeous hair. Jensen is a little more kick ass though, so I guess it depends on what mood I'm in. And if you haven't seen _Dark Angel_, it's worth it just for him. There's this one episode where he is undercover as a piano instructor and is constantly dressed in suits with this sleek pair of glasses. I've never seen him look more gorgeous.

**_Bally2cute_**: Thank you! Thus far, the story has been very Sam-centric, and I figured Dean needed a little loving. I'm very happy that you're enjoying the new mystery too! I'm a little worried about getting reviews regarding female inserts. Some people can be very cruel when it comes to OFC's. Hope it's not too overbearing!

**_X5vale_**: Nothing could ever stop Dean from being Dean either! It's beautiful. So sarcastic, snide...thanks for the comment about the nurse scene too! If Sam gets a hot, bubbly nurse to cater to him, Dean can certainly have a smart mouthed red head.

I hope they're getting even more interesting with this installment!

**_Spuffyshipper_**: Always a good thing to have clues to go on, especially when you're at the bottom of the hole. Poor Winchester's.

Oh, _Dark Angel_ is worth buying if for nothing else than Jensen. And "The Berrisford Agenda" is, most definitely, the best of the episodes about Alec or Ben. It was really beautiful with all the piano music and his relationship with Rachel. I felt so sorry for him at the end when the father tells him to never come back.

I totally agree with you about the relationships too. Alec had much better chemistry with Max, just like Logan had with Asha. The two transgenics would have made an awesome couple. Joshua was cool, very sweet, but Alec made the show watchable for me.

**_Swasti_**: Better late than never! Much appreciated for any comments! LOL! I love the notion that the news of the Impala's demise caused Dean's flatline. I wouldn't put it past him. Poor guy sees no point in living if he can't have his precious car. And Sam is definitely not having a fun time with those visions of his. Glad that the imagery affected you.

WHAT! WHO! WHO DID IT? Maybe later.

_**Thank you so, so, so much for the responses. They really do make my day. **_


	14. The Way Things Appear

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their associates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen: The Way Things Appear

"Good afternoon. You have reached St. Mary's Academy Residence Operators," the all too chipper voice of the pre-recorded message was enough to split Sam's ear drums. "If you know the extension of the person you wish to call, please enter it now. Or stay on the line and one of our representatives would be happy to help you."

He fiddled with the flap of the coin return for a minute, exasperated. Everyone in Boston had been unreachable that morning. The investigators from the Boston Police Department were all out in the field at the moment and still had no comment, no matter what newspaper Sam claimed to be from. Not a good sign. Sam had learned from experience that police were only silent in the face of their own failures. They hadn't found anything since that morning, and probably wouldn't for the rest of the day.

Robert Sullivan was also out of reach for the time being, something Sam found very surprising. Everyone in the Sullivan family was a media darling. Robert was the head of a major law firm with his wife, Erica Weaver, a well known socialite in her own right. Both had been permanent fixtures in the papers since their firm opened, hailed as the most successful attournies since Cochraine. James, too, found herself the object of the media's affection. She was a political and social activist, stirring up controversy left, right, and centre for her particularly liberal views. Anne was the only black sheep of the family, keeping to her studies it seemed. There wasn't a single article aside for her birth announcement, her disappearance, and brief mentions in any of the aforementioned Sullivans' articles.

Sam glanced nervously around the room for the umpteenth time that day. The Greyhound Bus Depot was quiet, with only a few passengers traveling east by the looks of it. Dean was slumped over in a seat nearest the window, hand covering part of his face as he floated on a wave of painkillers. Hutchison had prescribed one hell of a drug regimine for him, and while Dean usually disdained barbituates, he wouldn't have been able to survive the trip without them. Sam was happy he was taking them as well, seeing as how one of Dean's favourite mantras was, "Misery loves company." The last thing Sam needed was a grumpy, over-tired, and in-pain older brother.

"St. Mary's Academy Switchboard. How may I direct your call?"

"James Sullivan, please."

"I'm sorry, sir. Miss. Sullivan isn't accepting any calls right now," the operator replied, but wasn't the least bit sincere. "However if this is an urgent matter, I can forward your call to Miss. Helena Cormac, who will be accepting messages on Miss. Sullivan's behalf."

"Yeah, sure," Sam nodded, forgetting the operator couldn't see him through the phone. She didn't seem very interested anyways, considering she cut him off halfway through his response and had already started to patch him through. Within seconds, he heard ringing coming from the other line.

"Hello?"

"Ummm...hi, I'm calling for James Sullivan," he tightened his jaw, chastizing himself for the horrible introduction.

"Yeah, James is...a little busy right now," there were hushed voices in the background, whispering back and forth. Helena got back on the line. "I can take a message for her though."

Despite his horrendous salutation, Sam stuck to his original plan. "This is Detective Mosley with the Boston Police Department, just calling to confirm a few things about what happened last night."

Silence from the other side. Muffled voices drained in through the phone, incoherent from whatever was blocking them. He imagined Helena had covered the speaker to hide whatever conversation was carrying on in the background. Concentrating hard, he tried to make out what was being said. Both voices were indistinct and sharp, speaking quickly. Sam's eyes narrowed and he listened harder, halting his breath to catch even the smallest whisper of words.

But before he could make out anything, Helena was back on the line. "I'm terribly sorry, detective. James isn't available right now. I'll have you call you back a little later though."

Click.

Sam sighed and slammed the phone back down. "Damn it..." he hissed.

* * *

Dean found the ceiling highly amusing. The dark lines criss crossed through the white tiles, rippling in his line of vision as if it were liquid instead of solid. He was every thesaurus term for the word 'drifting', and in a weird, junkie way, he was enjoying it. For the first time since he had woken up, he wasn't in any pain. Not his chest, not his head, not any other part of his body. He felt vaguely at peace with the world, like Gandhi or that Lama guy. His universe consisted of a shivering sky and nonexistent ground, with him smack dab in the middle of it all; simplicity at its finest.

His nirvana was rudely interrupted by a person dropping down into the seat next to him. Spent of his strength, he turned his head lazily and came face to face with a very concerned looking Sam.

"What?" he mumbled, closing his eyes to block out the sight of his kid brother. That and the warm, sleepy feeling was starting to build inside him gradually, leaving him utterly wasted. He felt like he'd just had sex with Tara Mason and was going to spend the next twenty-four hours curled up in those lovely legs of hers.

"You are so stoned right now," Sam said with an amused grin.

"Shut up," Dean replied lifelessly. He opened one eye and shot his brother a serious look. "Where were you?"

"Making some phone calls," Sam replied quietly, shooting a nervous look around the sparsely populated waiting room. Dean's eyes rolled back in his skull, and at first Sam thought maybe the pills had finally won him over, but a second later he had lifted himself into a sitting position. Without saying a word, Sam knew that was his cue to continue. "The cops haven't found any physical evidence, at least nothing they're willing to share with the press."

"Figures," Dean scoffed groggily. "What about the sister?

"She's not answering her phone," Sam replied.

"And the dad?"

"His home number's unlisted. The only way to reach him is at his office in downtown Boston by leaving a message with his secretary. Same with his wife," Sam answered robotically. The hoop jumping he'd gone through with the personal assistants of the Sullivan-Weaver Law Firm just minutes ago was still fresh in his mind. _And to think_, a voice in his head chided, _that's the life you wanted for yourself a year ago_.

"What's our inventory look like?" Dean sank back into his chair. It was business first and then straight back to that lovely ceiling he found so soothing to stare at until Sam hauled his sorry, stoned ass onto the bus where he could crash for a couple of hours.

"A pair of .357 magnums, shot gun, rock salt, ammo, and a couple books on exorcisms and white magick," Sam patted the duffel next to him, as if to remind him that everything was right there. Missouri had been right: it wasn't much. Compared to their usual arsenal, this puny collection was pathetic. "It's better than nothing."

"Is that the college way of saying 'We're fucked'?" the older Winchester spat bitterly.

"No, that's my way of saying it could be worse."

Dean rolled his eyes and sank back into his seat. He shifted around a little, sighing deeply as he got comfortable again. "So what's the plan Miss Cleo?"

"You wanna talk about that now?" Sam gave a weak laugh. "You're baked, dude."

"Am too."

"Are not."

"Am too."

"Go to sleep, Dean," the younger Winchester fell back into his seat, running a hand through his hair casually. The knots were still there from the morning, causing his fingers to stop halfway over his scalp. Grimacing, he pulled his hand free and decided not to do that again.

Dean, who watched the entire action, let out a small laugh. "Poor Samantha forgot to brush her hair out this morning."

"Screw you," Sam chuckled, shaking his head.

* * *

"You think you know what you are up against?"

A thousand voices posed the question in unison, each one different in their own way but all distinctly female. Sam blinked, forcing his heavy eyelids to open despite his body's overwhelming desire to not do so. Even though his head was spinning, he knew he was flat on his back against the dry earth, staring upwards into a low hanging ceiling of a rustic hut. Golden firelight danced across the walls, but soon faded from view as smoke slowly started to fill every vacant crevace over him.

The voices laughed. "You have no idea what he is, nor what he is capable of."

He felt cold metal brush against his flesh as an instrument peeled his clothing away from his skin. A metallic snap filled the air, followed by another in a rhythmic pattern that hovered above his chest and drew a line upwards towards his chin. Sam fought against his fatigue, gritting his teeth in order to lift his arm and stop his phantom attacker, but every inch of his body was drained of energy. He hadn't the strength to fight whatever drugs or incantations held him steady.

The snapping stopped at his collarbones, and he caught the faintest glimpse of scissors gleaming in front of his eye before they vanished again. Bones cracked in the smoke filled shadows as fingers took hold of the cut fragments of his shirt and peeled them open, revealing his bare chest underneath.

Sam's breath hitched in his throat, but not just out of fear. The air around him was stifling, so thick it drained into his lungs like sludge. The fire had made it damn near impossible to inhale, reducing his mind to mush in a matter of seconds. His tongue swelled inside his mouth, gluey from the polluted air, and he felt dazed, even though he knew he shouldn't be. There was something in the smoke that made it hard to think, hard to speak, hard to breathe.

He stared upwards atthe ceiling, trying to ignore whatever the phantom was doing to his body. His eyes were misty from the grey vapour coiling like snakes over his eyes, and he felt hot tears stream down his cheeks as bony fingers trailed down his rib cage and abdomen, halting at the seams of his pants.

"You call him demon," the voices scoffed, "But only when you learn of his true form will you understand how to destroy him."

A dark form loomed above him, silver hair dangling lifelessly from within a black hood. Cold fingers ran over his bare, feverish chest. Sam could feel it with shocking clarity. The lines formed a five pointed star, a pentacle.

His eyelids fluttered again, on the verge of passing out. The crone had other plans for him, however. With her joints cracking the whole time, she placed her fingertips on his eyelids and forced them open.

"You are being deceived," she hissed, bringing her face so close to his he could feel her icy breath crawl over his skin. He coughed, eyes rolling back to their whites. "Look past the flesh, Samuel Winchester, for it is flesh which causes their treachery to go unnoticed. And to do that...you won't be needing these."

She dug her fingernails into his eyes.

* * *

Sam jerked into wakefulness with a sharp gasp, throwing himself into the seat back as he did so. Temporarily blinded by the pain in his sinuses, he lifted his hands to his face, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids, afraid that he wouldn't find anything underneath. Sure enough, the soft surface of his eye balls concede to the soft pressure, and he sighed in relief, taking deep, soothing breaths to calm his racing heart and alleviate his head ache.

"Sam?"

He nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of his own name. His body unconsciously reacted and forced him sideways, into the window on the bus. Grimacing, he rubbed his sore skull and moaned. _Smooth Sam, real smooth_, a voice in his head taunted. Sam forced himself to ignore it, and worked on massaging the last of the vision out of his sinuses without much luck, as usual.

With his heart still racing in his chest, Sam forced his eyes to open. He found himself seated in the window seat on the bus, the same seat he'd been occupying for the past nine hours straight. Granted the sun had come and gone in that period of time, leaving only the blue aisle lights and overhead lamps to see by.

"Geez, Sammy," Dean said from the seat next to him. "Time to switch to decaf."

"It's Sam," his kid brother replied softly, still suffering from the side effects of his developing psychic abilities. He lowered his hand from the bridge of his nose, bringing it to rest against the top of his chest in an effort to slow his breathing.

Dean cocked a brow. "You okay, bro?"

"Yeah," Sam replied breathlessly. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Uh huh, sure," the older Winchester scoffed. "Is that you or the panic attack talking?"

"I'm fine, okay? Just..."

"Nightmares?" Dean rolled his eyes. "Watching George Bush give you a lap dance is a nightmare, dude. What you have are way worse."

"Just forget it, okay? I'm fine," Sam replied dismissively, running his hand over his torso. His skin tingled painfully under his touch, like he was prodding a bruise. Stifling a wince, he turned back to Dean. "I'll be right back."

He stood up and slid past his brother into the aisle of the bus, legs shaking the whole time. Flexing his muscles, he tried to mask the symptom from Dean, but only managed in making it worse. Any exertion only weakened him further and if he continued he would have been sprawled out on the floor. Instead, he used the backs of the seats to balance him as he moved towards the tail end of the bus.

Sam sighed with relief when he noticed that they hadn't picked up many more people. The last thing he needed was his nightmares to be a public spectacle. He felt vulnerable enough with Dean seeing them. If anyone else noticed it would be excellent grounds to crawl into a hole and die from shame.

The vehicle rocked unsteadily on the road, mimicking Sam in a most unamusing way. He finished his journey to the restroom quickly, feeling the tremors become much more violent from the overuse of energy. Sleepless nights and psychic dreams were not the best cocktail for someone still recuperating from a car accident.

Closing the door behind him, he flicked the lights only to recoil quickly from how bright they were. "God..." he hissed as the headache in his sinuses flared to life again, enough to make his eyes bleed. When his senses adjusted, he tried opening them again, and was met with the frightening image of his own face in a mirror.

_And I thought Dean looked bad_, he grimaced, running a hand along the back of his neck. The colour of his skin was still drained, looking pasty as usual, and the dark circles around his eyes had gotten darker, if that were possible. _Ugh..._was his mind's only utterance in response to the image. He couldn't manage anything more artciulate or accurate than that.

He splashed some water on his face, running the cool lquid over his hair and neck as well. The sweat that had pooled on him during sleep washed free of his skin and Sam started to feel a little better. It wasn't much, but it was an improvement nonetheless.

Staring at the face in the mirror, his hand unconsciously traveled down to his chest again. He probed the tender skin again, eyes narrowed. "What the hell...?" he muttered, and tried lifting his shirt to get a better look. The fabric didn't stretch very well, leaving him with only the briefest glimpses of bruised flesh. Purple lines traced ever so faintly over his toned flesh.

A rush of panic ran through him. He threw off his coat and button-down, yanking the loose sweater off with the last of his strength. When he had stripped down enough, he faced the mirror fully, eyes widening in fear. Running from the tip to the base of his sternum was a circular bruise, as wide as a finger tip. Lines ran through its center, forming the vague shape of a pentacle over his chest.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Ah yes - the inexpicable bruise. Never a good sign for fledgeling psychics.

Sorry there's not a lot of Dean in this chapter. He'll make a comeback in later installments though, promise.


	15. Partial Truths

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen: Partial Truths

Something about the situation seemed strange. Since when were bus seats this comfy? Or this horizontal for that matter?

Furrowing his brow in confusion, Dean pulled open his eyelids, groaning from how unnaturally stiff he felt. His skin was pulled taught over his bones, preventing him from taking deep breaths or making any quick movements. Still, he felt a hell of a lot better than he had four days ago. His senses were sharp as ever, no longer dulled by meds or distracted by pain. The bruising on his chest was extensive, leaving the flesh and muscles sensitive to the slightest touch or movement, but he could do both without having the wind knocked out of him.

When he felt well enough to do so, he lifted himself from the bed and searched the room. He recognized the cheapness of his surroundings immediately: motel room. The same type of motel room he had spent the last twenty-seven years in. Nothing but the basics for John Winchester's boys; just two beds, four walls, and a ceiling. Dean didn't really remember how he got there, or where 'there' was, but he couldn't really recall much from that past few days. It was the first time he hadn't been snowed under by sedatives or in unbearable pain. They must have gotten to Boston sometime the night before and checked in while he was still riding another drug induced high.

_"That's it: no more meds for you," _Sam's voice resounded inside his skull like a distant memory, though Dean was pretty sure the comment was made recently.

The other bed hadn't been touched all night by the looks of it. Sam had made himself a home at the small table and chair set in the opposite corner, as indicated by the crumpled papers, numerous notes, and laptop stationed there. But Sam himself was nowhere to be found.

"Sam?" he asked the empty space. The room grew eerily silent with nothing but Dean's somewhat ragged breathing to fill the air. He shot a look over to where he assumed the bathroom was but couldn't hear the usual hiss of either the shower or the sink from inside. As ne'er as he could tell, he was the only one in the room.

Dean cast a worried glance at the night table, praying for a note. Sure enough, a yellow Post-It had been stuck to a full glass of water, left within plain sight. _Gone for coffee. Be right back. Sam._

"Jesus, Sammy," he hissed, looking towards the door. Dim sunlight streamed in through the window, giving the chipping yellow paint of the motel room a slightly golden hue. Dean raised a hand to his face, wincing as the knots in his muscles came undone and gave him more mobility.

The door creaked open suddenly, sending more sunlight into Dean's face. Spots raced into his vision, lingering long after the door had closed again and Sam's voice greeted him, "Morning sleeping beauty."

"Ah...Sam!" he barked, hand still covering half his face.

Sam gave a small laugh, partly from the expression on his brother's face, and partly because he knew Dean was feeling a lot better from the night before. They had arrived in Boston just before nine p.m. with Sam keeping himself conscious on just caffeine and Dean semi-conscious from Vicodin. Typically, the older Winchester just cut his losses and sucked it up, but Thursday morning passed by in a blur only this time, it wasn't from the drugs. It was just from the pain; the horrible, intense, agonizing pain that started in his chest and moved up into his head. He tried to hide it, as usual. He tried to sleep through it. He tried everything and anything to keep from actually ingesting any more of those pills.

But pain eventually won the battle in the end. By noon, tears were streaming down his cheeks and he could barely swallow without Sam holding a hand over his mouth and talking him through the motion. "It's okay," he soothed. "Just swallow, Dean, it's okay."

_Pathetic_, a voice inside him snapped. _You're pathetic, Dean. You're a fucking baby, you know that? You're a big fucking baby..._

"It's okay," his brother said once more, interrupting his inner-critic. He felt Sam's hand leave his face as the Vicodin kicked in, dispelling the dense waves of pain that flowed through him, drawing him inevitably back into darkness.

The rest of the day went off without a hitch. Having made their last transfer in Buffalo, there was no need to leave the bus any longer. Sam only disembarked for coffee, returning quickly to make sure Dean was still asleep or at least comfortably numb. Sometimes, Dean regained some semblance of consciousness, enough that he was aware of his brother's presence, but not so much to make any sense. The conversations they had were still fresh in Sam's mind, which only made Dean more hilarious to him.

Sure enough, the older Winchester slept straight through the process of renting a car and all the way to the motel. He would have kept going had Sam not taken him inside. Waking up just as the carrying process began, Dean pushed his little brother away.

"I can do it," he snapped indignantly.

"Fine," Sam snapped back, releasing what little hold he had left on his brother.

Dean straightened his jacket, red faced and wincing from the exertion, but took one brave step forward towards the motel room door.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying flat against the parking lot, having collapsed mid stride. Sam groaned, angry at his brother for being so stubborn. He pulled Dean's arm over his shoulders and heaved his brother from the ground. "Come on," he said. "Bedtime, big brother."

After another round of pills, he tucked Dean in as much as his older brother would allow. Even drugged, Dean was extremely stubborn, insisting with soft moans and forceful movements that he was perfectly capably of performing such an action himself. He was uncoordinated and clumsy from the pills, and passed out just as the blanket reached his waist, leaving Sam to finish the action as carefully as he could. Underneath his brother's thin t-shirt was a broken body, one that had seen too much action too soon. He could only hope that tomorrow made the pain a little more bearable.

Sure enough, when he re-entered the motel room Friday morning with two cups of coffee and breakfast, Dean was pretty much back to his old self. Most of the colour had returned to his features and faded from the many bruises on his arms and torso. His mobility was coming back to him, as was his temper, two things Sam had missed on a basis of pure principle. His brother was defined by both, and their absence meant that a large part of what made Dean Winchester was missing from the world, leaving Sam anxious and heartbroken for his ailing sibling.

"You feeling better?" he asked, walking forward with the two coffee cups outstretched, one balanced on top of the other. Dean took the topmost one quickly, hands shaking somewhat from hypoglycemia, and he eyed the bag in Sam's other hand hungrily. His younger brother got the message and dropped down on the bed, a fair distance from Dean so as not to overcrowd him, and handed his brother the bags. "I'll take that as a yes."

"Bagels?" Dean cocked a brow. "Where's the real food, Sammy?"

"It's Sam. And no M&M's till you've had some real breakfast," he kept the chocolate in his pocket, hoping Dean would eat something substantial before binging on junk food.

"M&M's are real breakfast," his brother said, completely serious. He stared Sam straight in the eyes, hell bent on attaining the candy he knew his brother had in his pocket. If Sam had been getting enough sleep the past few nights, he might have been able to put up some kind of a fight. Instead, he conceded, pulling the large yellow bag from his pocket and tossing them over to his brother.

"You're going down too easily," Dean commented as he tore into bag, hands still trembling considerably. Somehow though, he managed to pull out a handful of the candy and pop a few in his mouth without looking the least bit frazled. "Talk to me bro. What you been seeing lately?"

Sam gave a mirthless laugh. "You wanna talk?"

"Hell yeah, I wanna talk. We're about to go up against one of the most evil son-of-a-bitches this plain of existence has ever known and you haven't slept in over a week," he popped another M&M, effectively ending his side of the argument.

"I have slept," the younger Winchester protested weakly, unable to meet his brother's intense stare. "I've just been distracted lately with this new case and this demon and I..." he trailed off, unable to find words. Strange how he fought with his brother for the chance to converse for such a long time only to have the opportunity thrown back in his face. "They're just nightmares, Dean."

"You keep saying that, maybe someday you'll believe it," his brother tossed another M&M into his mouth, leaning back against the head board with a small twinge of pain. Sam looked towards the pills on the night table, just about to recommend that Dean take one when his brother restarted the conversation. "So what happens in your nightmares?"

There was a beat. Sam was clearly thinking of a way to phrase what he saw in a less condemning manner and coming up snake-eyes in the process. There really was no comprehensible way to talk about demons, crones, and pentacles without sounding insane in the process, even when talking to a fellow hunter. Den was always wary about psychic visions, not sharing in his father's ability to believe in the power of the unseen. The only reason he acted on Sam's premonitions was because he trusted his brother without question.

"There's an old woman," Sam replied slowly, rolling his eyes to hide his anxiety when mentioning her. The nightmarish crone had haunted him since she had ripped out his eyes the night before last, and he had started seeing her face everywhere he looked. She was the woman behind the counter at the coffee shop, the gentleman in front of him in the line-up, the child in the room next to theirs...but he didn't tell Dean any of that. "And that pentacle again."

"Your chest okay?" his brother asked suddenly. In the midst of his emotional turmoil, he hadn't even realized that he was itching the newly formed pentacle bruise along his sternum, so much so that Dean had taken notice.

"Yeah, yeah," he lowered his hand shakily to his side, trying not to scratch again. Dean was anything but convinced, but dropped the issue, knowing there was more important business to attend to. "The only thing I've seen that makes sense is the girl, and since then...nothing."

Dean couldn't explain it. For some reason, he believed his brother. Despite Sam's shady explanation, he knew his brother was as lost as he was, maybe more so. He nodded mutely and ate a few more M&M's, eyes locked on his little brother. _This sucks_, he thought angrily. Sam was still suffering - a word he used lightly for how shitty the younger Winchester was looking recently - from nightmares that had already came or were about to come true, and he, being the awesome big brother that he was, was completely powerless to stop it. There was no weapon in the world that could ward off the evil lurking inside his little brother's head. _Oh yeah, Dean_. _You're brother of the freaking year._

"So what's the plan?" Sam asked, changing the subject to something that didn't make his head hurt so much.

"We start with the school," Dean replied. "Talk to the sister, who knows? Maybe she saw something that night, smelled something, felt something...anything at this point. Have you been able to get a hold of the father?"

"Nope. He's still avoiding the phone. Same goes with the wife," Sam answered.

"Looks like we're splitting up then," Dean said with a shrug, tossing another chocolate into his mouth.

* * *

Dean brang the car to a sudden halt outside the St. Mary's front gate, casting a wanton glance in the direction of the all girl's academy.

"I still don't see why you get to work the school," he snapped. "I mean, besides the fact that you're a chick."

"That's getting old," Sam said grumpily from the passenger seat. He knew that Dean was itching to get onto St. Mary's campus, what with all those Catholic girls running around in short skirts. But the story Sam came up with to explore campus required a suit, and the sole one they had only fit his lengthily body. That left Dean playing bad-cop at Sullivan-Weaver for answers.

"It's old when I say it's old," Dean snapped, tapping his hands on the steering wheel impatiently. Sam got the message and stepped out of the car, straightening out the suit on his way out. "Call me when you're done. Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?" he didn't turn around, eyes locked on the St. Mary's main building straight ahead of him.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

For a moment, his brother sounded worried. Sam looked back over his shoulder to Dean, their gaze meeting for only a moment, but it was long enough for the older Winchester to get his message across.

_Don't you die on me, Sammy_.

"You too," Sam said with a small nod. Dean turned his attention back to the road, gunning the engine frustratedly, hating the Ford with every fibre of his being. He didn't even wave before driving off again, heading back into downtown Boston.

Taking a deep breath of the ocean laced air, he shifted his gaze back to St. Mary's campus. Beyond the stone wall and cast iron gate lay a glorious campus of oak trees and lavish courtyards. The main building lay at the end of a horse shoe driveway, constructed of the same faded stone, marble, and iron as the gate surrouding it. A large arched doorway lead inside the many-windowed structure and the complexes beyond.

Walking forward, Sam became aware of the many other buildings past that, including the large, towering residence just to the right of the main complex. He held his breath, anxieties becoming fairly evident as he realized just how tall everything was here. It was like walking into a monastery or a convent, or, hell, walking over a grave. A schoolyard was usually filled with the sound of human voices, not the hollow echoes of the wind amongst ancient parapets and secret nooks. St. Mary's was no more a school than it was a prison.

He slid his hands into his pockets, trying to remain casual. According to the newspapers, only female police officers were allowed on the scene, making the task of infiltrating Anne Sullivan's room that much harder. Entering St. Mary's as a cop gave him virtually limitless access to all areas involved in the crime. Thinking quickly, Sam called ahead and made an appointment with the Headmistress pretending to be the father of a prospective St. Mary's student. At first the woman was apprehensive about hostessing a tour around campus, especially with one of her prized students having recently gone missing, but Sam hinted ominously towards leaving a donation for the school regardless, something that changed her mind rapidly. "I will see you at noon," she said, her smile very evident through the phone.

His nightmares felt heavy in his brain, blocking out any other thoughts in those moments as he entered the school grounds. They filled his mind like bricks, building a wall between he and the information necessary to play his role successfully. He felt the crones fingernails piercing his eye lids, her hands running the length of his chest as a pentacle swung like a pendulum in the distant recessess of his consciousness. Sam reached up to run a hand through his hair, the usual response to psychological distress, but remembered that he couldn't, not with how much gel he had used to slick his hair back that morning. He'd have to quell over the thoughts while staying in character. "Be the billionaire, college boy," Dean had jokingly said as they drove out to the school, a comment the older Winchester received a stern look for.

Sam took another deep breath and hurried up the steps, all the while listening to Anne Sullivan's screams dance around his brain.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

It's a short chapter, but it gets the story all set up for the investigation that's coming.

There are two reasons why Dean and Sam don't work the school together. One - they are on a bit of a timeline, with only four days between them and the demon's certain disappearance. And two - being that he went to school for pre-law, it's safe to say that Sam is the only Winchester in possession of a suit. In 'Phantom Traveller' they rented them. I have him actually owning one tailored to his specifications. Dean probably wouldn't pass for a well educated business man, but Sam could do it without many difficulties.


	16. The Human Factor

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen: The Human Factor

At first, Dean cursed his brother's selfishness. As Sam gawked over underage hotties running around in mini skirts, he was forced to interrogate some well-educated prude in downtown Boston. While logic would point out that Sam was every inch a gentleman, or at least too shy to 'gawk', he chose to believe it because his kid brother was there, and he was at some law firm playing Stephen Seagal with nothing but frumpy secretaries for scenery.

But that was only at first, because ten seconds after walking in he was faced with God's gift to women - and men. Behind the black and gray desk was a Goddess of the administration. Her long blonde hair was tied into an elegant French knot. Everything about her style was lavishly done, from the black liner and mascara accenting her perfect royal blue eyes to the black blazer and white blouse she wore as a uniform. What made the situation all the better was that the attraction was mutual. She eyed Dean in exactly the same way he was eyeing her, and for a split second, he even thought she had the makings of a smile on that gorgeous face of hers.

She held up a finger, indicating for him to wait a moment as she finished up on her phone call. Her fingers moved in a blur over the keyboard as she calmly reassured the person on the other line. "Yes sir...of course...no, I understand...have a great day. Good bye."

The secretary clicked off the line, leaving her ear piece in just in case there was another call. She turned her sights on Dean, failing miserably when she attempted to hide her smile. "How can I help you, sir?"

_Back rub? Strip tease? Long slow screw? Say the word and I'm there, pretty boy._

Dean smirked coyly. "Oh there's plenty you can help me with..." _Just nothing that's publically appropriate. _She gave a soft laugh, lowering her head gratiously. "Actually, I'm here to see Robert Sullivan."

"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Sullivan has cancelled all his appointments due to personal matters," she replied succinctly.

"No problem. I didn't have an appointment anyways," he reached into his coat, feeling the motions coming back to him quickly. "I'm Detective..." _Oh crap. What the hell was the name on the badge?_ He peeked at the name discretely before flipping it open in front of her, "Bauer from the Boston Police Department." She barely caught a glimpse of the ID before he flipped it away from her, feeling a pang of sympathy for the lovely woman who was so obviously a perfectionist at heart.

After a moment's hesitation, she nodded in response. "I'll tell him you're coming up."

"Thank you," he replied. _Just tell him to give me a minute. The view from here is amazing_.

She entered the extension on the phone, waiting for a dial tone. "Good morning, Mr. Sullivan. There's a Detective Bauer here to see you. Should I send him...?" she paused suddenly. "Yes, sir, I saw his ID." Another pause, this time followed by a sharp look in his direction before the secretary turned away and lowered her voice. Dean's well trained ears still picked up every word that was spoken. "I don't think he's been here before, sir. Yes, sir, I'll tell him to wait. Good bye..."

Evidentally she was cut off. The secretary hung up and faced Dean with a small smile on her face. "Mr. Sullivan will be right down, sir, if you'd like to have a seat while you wait."

"Thanks," he replied with a nod, winking at her quickly. She blushed pink and looked away, unable to face him. Dean walked backwards and turned towards the small gathering of chairs nearby, intending to take full advantage of the leather arm chair made available to those forced to wait. They matched the rest of the Sullivan-Weaver firm perfectly; simple, elegant, and black.

He had no idea what to expect of Robert Sullivan. His only discussions with Sam about the matter had been conducted while he was high on Vicodin, leaving him with only hazy recollections of his brother's opinion of the man.

Even still, the gentleman who approached him was nothing like what he had expected. Dean envisioned Sullivan as a plump, Armani-clad, Gene Hackman-esque lawyer who cared more for his current case and the increase in his pocket book than his missing daughter. What he got was something completely different. In fact, if the man hadn't introduced himself, Dean would have never assumed he was Robert Sullivan. Standing just shy of six feet and fairly lean, he certainly wasn't physically imposing as Dean had originally imagined. No jury would run and cower from him at first glance, that was certain. His body was a mess of sharp angles, most of which went unseen because of his clothing, but were very noticeable on his face. He had a strong chin and well defined jawline, over worked from stress and tension. A pair of baby blue eyes stared out from under a smooth brow structure, making him to look more like a boy than the fully grown sixty-year old Dean assumed he was. And, much to the man's good fortune, he still had a full head of neatly styled gray hair.

"Are you Detective Bauer?" he asked in a gravelly but distinguished voice. Dean also found he had slight traces of a British accent, one that more than likely went unnoticed to the casual listener. The older Wincherster nodded nonchalantly, rising from his seat on instinct. Whoever the guy was had only to open his mouth and you respected him.

The man extended his hand politely. "I'm Robert Sullivan."

"Pleasure," Dean said quickly, though he didn't really mean it. He was just trying to hide his surprise as he shook the man's hand.

"Likewise," Sullivan answered, releasing his grip on Dean's hand. "Detective Baringer already took my statement yesterday, if that's what you're here about, and I have no further comment to make on the subject."

Sullivan's distaste for this Baringer fellow was obvious when he spoke. His face flushed quickly at the very mention of the name, and his hands tightened visibly at his side.

"Actually this is just a routine follow-up before I go back and continue the investigation," the Winchester said with a quick smile.

Sullivan seemed to respond to it, his jaw loosening at the sight of this cocky detective. His voice, however, remained firm. "I realize that the rumours floating around must give you the wrong impression."

Dean became very confused, but decided to run with it anyways. "Well, the rumours are very convincing, sir," he said casually. "Just so we're clear: which rumours are you talking about?"

"I was only aware of one rumour: that Andrea Withers was somehow involved with Anne's disappearance," Sullivan's fists tightened in anger.

"Right, uh...Andrea Withers," Dean nodded, scratching his head a little. "Is there any reason to suspect her?"

"Other than past events, no. I've never had any contact with any members of the Withers family, nor have my daughters."

"Yeah, well, we haven't even considered Miss. Withers at all," Dean said, changing the subject to something more pertinent. "Detective Baringer was more focused on any connections that could be made between your daughter's disappearance and your wife's unfortunate death twenty years ago."

Sullivan's features tightened again. "I have told Detective Baringer time and time again that my wife's death was purely accidental and has _nothing_ to do with Anne's disappearance. Faulty wiring does not account for a missing person."

"The case file of your wife's death..."

"Is closed, Detective Bauer. Pass that message along to Detective Baringer as well. This is about my daughter, not about my wife," the elderly lawyer was about ready to punch Dean, fists so tight the tendons popped out of his knuckles. He took a deep breath before finishing. "We're done here. If you want another statement from me, find my daughter."

And with that, Robert Sullivan stormed back to the elevator. "Shit," Dean hissed.

* * *

The Headmistress of St. Mary's was an angular woman named Christabella Winston, tenth in a long line of Winstons who sat as a figure head for the school since it was established in 1823. It was originally a finishing school for the daughters of aristocrats, grooming the wives' of tomorrow, but had long since changed their focus to academia rather than embroidery.

Seated in her office, Sam felt extremely out of place. Sure, his fake name, tailored suit, and fake check had Miss. Winston convince of his wealth, or at least too ecstatic to care. But there was an obvious distance between both he and his surroundings. The luxurious office was decorated sparsely, just enough to be elegant without being overbearing. Forest green walls were accented perfectly with hardwood flooring, chair rail, and matching furniture. Everything was organized in neat cubicles and file folders, labelled with brass name plates according to date and content. He was a stain on a silk blouse, a red wine spill on a cashmere sweater, unfit for the office he now found himself in.

Christabella herself was the image of grace and charm, the product of expert private schooling. She glided instead of walked and transformed casual movements into a symphony that the whole world stopped to watch. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, but instead of hiding her age, she had embraced it, wearing her grays with a proud sense of accomplisment instead of an air of shame as most woman did. Even her wrinkles were tasteful, signs of wisdom and longevity rather than the tiredness of age.

"You're rather young to be a father," she commented with a grin. Her mouth was still full of her real teeth, each one polished white with care. Her blue eyes sparkled at the sight of Sam, though whether it was him or the cheque that made her grin, he'd never know.

"What can I say?" he replied, attempting to emulate Dean's natural charm and charisma. "I did everything at an advanced pace."

"Oh yes," Christabella nodded. "So many young people are settling down early these days, what with the information age upon us. Just last week a couple younger than you enrolled their little girl here. We're the fastest growing school on the East Coast, Mr. Barrie, and have the highest employment rate in the country. Any young girl would be lucky to attend here."

Sam smiled. Ah yes, of course his daughter would be lucky to go there. To be forced into a wretched uniform, reciting prayers to the almighty as corporal punishment kept them in line. It was every little girl's dream. Naturally, he mentioned none of this, keeping his big mouth shut say for the grin he was starting to develop. Christabella never took her eyes off of him, intruiged by Sam's alternative identity, the youthful young millionaire who was offering her another expensive membership to her exclusive club.

"How old is your daughter, Mr. Barrie?" she asked.

"Eleven," he answered, just quick enough to be natural without arrousing suspicion. He was surprised at how quickly the lies came to him on the spot. "But she is advanced for her age will be graduating into middle school this year."

"Advanced students excel in our programs," she stated proudly. "So many of our students have intelligences considerably higher than average. Typically, they find our classes more to their liking and level."

"Sounds wonderful," he said with a nod.

"I should hope so," she added, eyes moving instinctively to the bogus cheque on her desk. "If you'd like we can now start the..."

There was a hurried knock on the office door. Christabella did not rise from her seat, merely stared, slightly confused by the interruption, and after a moment, bade whoever was outside to enter.

A girl no older that thirteen stepped inside nervously, big blue eyes moving quickly from Sam to Christabella. She was chewing on her bottom lip like she hadn't eaten in a week, an action that only became more pronounced when she looked at Christabella.

"Pamela Griffin? What seems to be the problem?" the headmistress asked as warmly as she could manage, which wasn't very warmly at all. Sam felt himself get the shivers when she asked.

"Umm...well..." Pamela turned and looked back out through the open door where hundreds of female voices trailed in ast an accelerated rate. Just five minutes ago, when Sam had entered, the entrance hall beyond had been scarily silent. Now, it was booming with activity. "It's just..."

"What's going on out there?" Christabella rose from her seat and walked quickly across the room, poking her head outside. She could see very little at first, but when she walked forward towards the edge of her private loft, she got a perfect view of the entrance hall one flight of stair beneath her.

Sam rose slowly from the chair, giving Miss Griffin a small smile before continuing. The young girl smiled back, despite her distress, and got out of his way.

Just as Sam entered the doorway, Christabella started heading down the stairs.

"What is the meaning of this!" she shouted, descending upon the chaos as quick as she could. A hushed silence fell over the crowd of girls hovering around the front door and windows, each one trying to get a good look at what was happening outside. In typical school girl fashion, no one could come up with the answer all at once. Each student just started into a rushed explanation about what they were witnessing. "Oh for goodness sakes...I'm sorry Mr. Barrie," she said over her shoulder to Sam as he followed with Pamela close behind. "Now, what on earth is going on here?"

"She said she was going to blow up the police department!" one shouted, voice both fearful and excited all at the same time.

Christabella groaned, rolling her eyes exageratedly as she opened the door and stormed out, throwing one more apology over her shoulder before disappearing.

Pamela was still chewing on her bottom lip when Sam dared to inquire, "What's going on?"

She shot a nervous look towards him, chewing on her lip harder. For a thirteen year old, she was quite adorable, with thick layers of blonde hair falling dramatically over her shoulders and large, sea blue eyes. She was pale with soft, baby like features. Sam felt like he was watching one of those Japanese Animes when he looked at her.

"Hey," he said calmly, smiling sweetly at her. "It's okay. I just wanna know what's happening."

The girl looked uncomfortable, but Sam's sweet smile eventually won her over. "One of the girls went missing her two days ago - Anne Sullivan," she said. God, even her voice was cute. She embodied childhood innocence in her tiny, barely teenage body. "The cops haven't found anything, and now her sister's leaving school."

Sam cast a glance towards the door, and then looked back at Miss Griffin. She was on the verge of tears now, trying and failing to hide them from him. Unable to deny his sympathy for her, he fumbled around in his pockets for a tissue, unable to find any. He moved back into Christabella's office and snatched several from the box on her desk, heading back into the hall quickly. "Here," he offered them. Pamela took them nervously, giving Sam a small smile of thanks. He lowered to the floor, trying to not look so intimidating. He was several feet taller than the young girl. "Did you know Anne?"

She nodded shakily, choking on her words. "She was my best friend."

He hung his head, unable to meet those desperate eyes of hers. He had too many of those eyes in his memories already, too many of these girls living in his nightmares. He didn't want anymore. He didn't need anymore. And yet, he lifted his gaze anyways and looked her in the eyes again.

"Did you see anything the night she disappeared?" he asked. "Hear anything? Smell anything?"

She shook her head, dismayed by her own incompetance. "It sounds stupid."

"That's okay," he encouraged her. "Just say it, no matter how stupid it sounds."

Pamela sniffled. She ran the Kleenex over her cheeks again. "Anne was helping me study for mid terms all week. We would meet in her room after lunch and work all the way through dinner." Sam held back any arguments he had against the system. In high school and University he had employed the same methods of review, but he had a family to avoid and a scholarship to maintain. He wasn't a twelve year old with a whole lifetime to dedicate to study periods. "The day she went missing, she was...different. She kept talking about hearing snakes in the hallways. She wouldn't answer her phone, could barely focus on her work...by the time dinner rolled around, I decided to stop early so she could get some sleep. The next thing I knew, her sister was at my door asking where she was."

She hesitated a moment. "I got really sick though. The hallway smelled like burnt matches."

"Did anyone else notice?"

"If they did they didn't say anything," she said with a shrug. "Everybody else was worried about Anne."

Sam nodded, hanging off her every word. Sulfur scent was a big indication of demonic activities. Strange though, that no one else seemed to notice it. Powerful demons left a strong sulfur scent. As a child, he had been made sick over it several times.

"Everybody thinks Andrea Withers did it," Pamela added suddenly, balling up the Kleenex in her hand.

"Who's Andrea Withers?" Sam asked.

"She used to go here in the seventies. One day she went crazy and kidnapped a couple of girls from their classes," she shifted from side to side, the conversation topic making her gnaw her pouting lip off again. "They caught her, but the girls she took were never heard from again. They were just rumours though, I swear!" she protested suddenly, reverting back to that fright she had possessed when she first entered the office. "Nobody expected...I mean, she wasn't supposed too..."

"What?" Sam asked, trying to stay calm. "What is it?"

"Anne's sister...she...she..."

Sam tried to be patient, but couldn't help it. The girl's distress was giving him heart palpatations. "What is it?"

"She said she was going to kill Andrea Withers," Pamela admitted suddenly.

* * *

The unfortunate incident with Robert Sullivan made it impossible to get the secretary's phone number, something that made Dean's already bad day that much worse. His chest was starting to hurt again, as was his head, and by the time he had left the law firm he was gasping raggedly, digging through his pockets for his Tylenol. He had swiped the pill bottle out of Sam's things that morning, not really expecting to need them, but wanted to be safe rather than sorry. He just didn't want his brother to know he was being cautious.

Halfway through popping another pill, the cell phone in his pocket started ringing. Missouri had managed to salvage at least one from the wreck, but it had remained uncharged since they left Des Moines. Sam had plugged it in the night before, giving them some form of communication, even if it was just one way. Cursing the disorganized compartments of his jacket, he finally managed to dig the cell phone out. "Francis' cellular device."

"Screw you," Sam said from the other line.

"Oh, you wish," Dean quipped. "Happy hunting?"

"Not really. The tour was cut short," his little brother sighed. "You?"

"Shitty," Dean replied, swallowing hard on the pill. He stuck his tongue out in response to the vile taste in his mouth. Medication really sucked. "Dad's not talking about his wife. He seems pretty pissed at the Boston P.D."

"Yeah, the sister is too. She left the school a couple of minutes ago on a homicidal rampage," Sam sighed deeply. "I think we're going about this the wrong way, Dean. Everyone here seems convinced that a woman named Andrea Withers is responsible."

"The dad just gave me hell over that," Dean pulled the car keys out of his pocket, unlocking the doors with the remote. "Apparently there's no connection except some shady history."

"Shady history's right," Sam replied softly. His voice quietted suddenly. "Look, just come pick me up, okay? We gotta get to the Withers house before something bad..."

"Sam?" Dean asked, sliding into the driver's seat of the car. He heard his brother's breathing stop short, before Sam's voice returned, sickly sweet and paternal in a sitcom sort of way.

"Yeah, I'll be home soon honey," his brother cooed.

"You're sick, bro."

"Daddy loves you too."

His brother hung up the phone. Dean stared at the cell for a few moments, totally stunned. He shook his head, flipping the cell shut. "You're sick, bro," he repeated quietly.

* * *


	17. Into the Woods

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen: Into the Woods

Andrea Withers was St. Mary's deep, dark secret, kicked under the proverbial carpet so long she existed only in legend. She was the rumour sophomores told freshman to scare the living shit out of them in orientation week. She was the creature lurking in the closet for underachievers and rebellious youths, just waiting to pounce at the slightest infraction. There were so many versions of her story, Sam wasn't sure what to believe. All he knew were the basics: Andrea Withers had kidnapped several members of the student body, took them hostage in her home, and they were never seen again.

After Christabella cancelled their tour, Pamela rallied a few girls to tell Sam the Andrea Withers story, something that resulted in several, heated arguments about what was true and what wasn't. Only the details of the kidnapping remained consistent. Everything else was open to elaboration, and every girl at St. Mary's had put their own private spin on the tale. In some versions, Andrea believed she was exorcizing the demons of the school. In others, she was in the employ of the illusive Sisterhood of Lilith, a St. Mary's secret as old as the school was.

"Andrea said the girls were demons," one of Pamela's friends said. "They never found the bodies because she chopped them up and fed them to her hell hounds."

"She didn't chop up the bodies," an older girl corrected her. "She buried the bodies outside her home and now the girls haunt the forest up there. Some people say the ghosts make the trees move and the forest change shape. No one's been able to get the Withers' house since they locked her up inside."

By the time Dean showed up, Sam was no closer to discovering the truth about Andrea Withers than he was when Pamela mentioned it. What he did know, however, was that James Sullivan had left campus just moments before headed for the Withers house presumably, and she was definitely pissed. No girl in the entire academy could deny that James Sullivan was a force to be reckoned with, and all confirmed Pamela's fears - that she was bound to murder Andrea Withers.

Hopping in the passenger seat, Dean stared stunned at the crowd of girls hovering at the window, watching his younger brother leave. "You started a fan club?" he asked, causing Sam to look back as well. Every girl was eyeing the car desperately, as if the young Winchester were a brownie placed in front of an anorexic teen. The sight was enough to convince him that sending Dean into town was a good idea. The older Winchester oozed a neverending supply of sex appeal. So while Sam was an object of curious stares, Dean would have a traveling band of groupies permanently leaving the Catholic school for residence in the Winchester car trunk, as long as it was close to him.

"So you cancelled a tour and made yourself the God of Catholic Middle Schools. Damn, you've learned well grasshopper," Dean said as he pulled out and onto the highway.

"I had to find out more about Andrea Withers," Sam replied, trying to banish the thought of all the Catholic girls from his head. Their big, childlike eyes haunted him, bearing a close resemblance to the ones he had seen in his nightmare. Anne Sullivan had a pair of beautiful baby blues that burned even brighter with her dreamlike scream.

Before he could continue, Dean interrupted him, shoving an old newspaper into his brother's lap without taking his eyes off the road. Sam unfolded it gently, careful not to rip it as he tried to get a good look at the front page. The paper was tinted yellow with age, but it was still easy to see the picture and the headline. Dated June 24, 1974, the ancient issue of the Boston Post showcased, _St. Mary's Student Charged with the Murder_: _Eighteen year old Andrea Withers arrested for the kidnapping and murders of four other St. Mary's students._

This was the truth he had been looking for, the truth no student in St. Mary's could provide him with. Andrea Withers' was iconic in the eyes of the girls. She was a cold blooded killer in the eyes of the law. Sam found it amazing how preteens could romantacize the worst crimes in human history, transforming them into provocative tales of demonic possession and secret societies.

"After a six day manhunt, authorities discovered the bodies of kidnapped St. Mary's students Francis Mahone, Beatrice Welch, Dahlia Talos, and Kiersten Helfer buried in shallow graves on Michael Withers property," he read aloud, eyes shifting between the article and the picture. Black and white ink showed very little, especially after decades of rotting in a library, but Sam could still make out a young woman being dragged away in hand cuffs. "Police arrested Michael's eighteen year old daughter Andrea after she confessed."

"Took the girls straight out of their dorm rooms, shoved 'em in the family car and drove out to her house where she tortured 'em for five days, slashed their throats, and buried them in shallow graves," Dean summarized the article in a few brief seconds, something that made Sam's stomach tie itself in knots. "Cops probably never would have found the bodies if she hadn't phoned in a report that St. Mary's was seething with demons."

"She claimed the four girls were at the heart of a demonic conspiracy St. Mary's had been hiding for centuries," Sam paraphrased with a nod. "Where the hell were the parents during all this?"

"Out of town," Dean said. "Andrea was deemed unfit to stand trial and was locked up in a mental hospital," his brother notified him casual. They may as well have been talking about the weather, Dean's tone was so relaxed. "Spent the next couple of years in therapy before her parents had her forcibly removed, but she was kept under strict house arrest since then."

Sam scanned the article for more information, but only found preliminary descriptions of the horrors each of her victims endured. Andrea Withers used any means to invoke pain upon them - fire, knives, power tools, everything and anything she could get her hands on. At first glance, Andrea Withers was the high school beauty queen. She was fair haired and doe eyed, glancing nervously away from the camera used to take the front page photograph. Closer inspection revealed a darker truth, a twisted reality no school marm or fellow student could predict. The statements out of St. Mary's painted Andrea Withers' as a kind, loving girl, with a passion for life most envied. The statements out of the police were complete opposites. Andrea was a cold blooded killer, plain and simple as that.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"Called the local library. They had the article on hand. Cops have been calling all morning looking for all the Andrea Withers' information they can get," Dean changed lanes and took a sharp left, heading away from Boston again, to the south this time. "They sent a squad out their this morning and haven't heard back from them since."

Sam looked up from the newspaper, staring at his brother seriously. Dean turned to look at the younger Winchester, eyes unyielding as they held one another's gaze. He wasn't being the least bit coy no matter how ridiculous the statement seemed.

Something was going on at the Withers' house. Something evil. Something they were going to get to the bottom of.

All this went unspoken. Sam's eyes returned to the article, eyes locked on the black and white image of Andrea Withers, while Dean pressed down a little harder on the gas pedal.

* * *

Dean thanked his lucky stars his father was a resourceful SOB. The ID number on his fake badge turned out to be completely authentic, giving him the ability to inquire about anything and everything with the Boston P.D. The officer on duty answered his questions whole heartedly, revealing that the Withers' house had been the target of police investigations several times in the past, what with a convicted killer living there. However, any attempt to reach the house failed miserably. Not even the most trained rangers could navigate their way from the sideroad to the hilltop home of the Withers' family.

With the coordinates scrawled on the paper in his pocket, Dean felt a little more prepared to deal with the case. The world had gotten royally fucked since their accident, shot to hell and back again. No dad, no journal, and, perhaps the biggest kick in the balls, no colt meant that they were back at square one with even less hope than before. Now, they were relying on the words of two psychics: one, a middle aged woman with connections to their currently comatose father. And two, his baby brother, whose visions were, in Dean's opinion, a sick-and-twisted cosmic joke.

_Speaking of Sam_, he thought, turning towards his little brother. Sam appeared to have succombed to sleep at last with his head hanging back at the crook of the headrest. His breathing was deep and even while his eyes moved rapidly beneath their closed lids. He kept his arms crossed protectively over his chest, fingers draped loosely over the ancient newspaper.

The older Winchester turned back to the road, mouth curving in a slight grin at the sight of his younger sibling. Sam's age was cut in quarters whenever he slept, reverting back to the good old days of boyhood in an instant. Conscious-Sam was an inquistive scholar, always yearning to know, even if he regretted ever knowing the answers. Sleeping-Sam was a child again, small and fragile like a newborn kitten. He burrowed under the covers as if immersing himself in a makeshift womb, the only defense he had left against a motherless childhood. Sleeping in the car was only a little different. His long legs rested against the floor, twitching occassionally in sleep. Yet his arms wrapped themselves around his torso protectively, warding off whatever demons awaited him in dreamland.

Sam shifted in sleep suddenly, mumbling something. Dean rolled his eyes, resisting the urge to put anything in his brother's half-open mouth. The circles under his brother's eyes had only gotten darker over the past few days, his movements more and more sluggish. Dean didn't have to be a doctor to know that wasn't healthy, not with the nomadic lifestyle hunting demanded.

And yet, he was at a loss. He couldn't force Sammy to sleep, couldn't slip pills into the kid's coffee or whack him into unconsciousness, though both weighed heavily on his mind. He continuously made himself a silent promise, "Next time, Sammy, I swear to God. Next time I'm gonna punch your lights out." It was the same bad ass, silent promise he made whenever his brother did something stupid or got himself in trouble. Without it, he would be too scared to face the next sleepless night or the morning after that.

He brought the car around smoothly on the sharp curve in the road, causing Sam's body to slide over the seat and land on his shoulder. Normally, the action would have caused his brother to stir immediately, but after several days without sleep, he remained completely oblivious to the action. Dean's whole body went rigid from the contact, the foreign sensation of his brother's weight pressing against him enough to drive them off the road. Yet Sam hadn't woken the whole time. He was so out of it, the movement didn't stir him in the slightest.

"Sam," Dean said, jerking his elbow uncomfortably. His kid brother groaned and moved back in his own seat, slumping back against the seat, still asleep.

The older Winchester sighed in relief, not only from how quickly the awkward moment was averted, but also, the fact that Sammy hadn't woken up the whole time. Dean glanced a couple of times just to be sure, and was incredibly relieved to find that his brother's eyes were still closed, his breathing still even, his body still curled into whatever fetal inspired position he could manage in the small space.

Dean's unseen boundaries rebuilt themselves, he wondered briefly when things got so screwed up between he and his brother. As children, he was Sammy's fortress. He was Superman with a cooler suit. He warded off the monsters under the bed, banished the pain from cuts and scrapes, and was Sam's soft spot to fall when the nightmares got too bad. At six, John Winchester put a stop to all of these practises, claiming that Dean was making Sam soft with his incessant mothering. There would be none of that while there was a war to be fought. Dean assumed that where he slaughtered whatever feminine side he had, giving into his stone-like facade just because it was easier to kill when he just didn't care.

But Sam didn't deserve it. He had known that then just as he knew it now. Sweet, innocent little Sammy didn't need his brother kicking him out of his bed, not with his father hunting the supernatural and his mother gone. He needed someone to tell him everything was alright, even if it wasnt, if for no other reason than to see that smile come back to the boy's face. After all, wasn't that what they were fighting for? Children like Sammy, who faced the world without a mother because the world was filled with pure evil?

He grabbed the map from the seat next to him, tired of the endless strain of questions running through his head, questions John Winchester didn't have answers to. Instead, Dean immersed himself in other subject matter, namely the case at hand. According to the map, they were damn close to the hillside where the Withers' house was. He slowed down, pulling onto the shoulder of the road, staring out at the forest he and his brother were about to head into.

"Sam," he said sternly, rousing his brother immediately. Sam lurched forward, blinking madly as if trying to hide the fact that he was sleeping. Dean said nothing about the 'shoulder incident', as he had deemed it mentally. Instead, he set about grabbing their stuff out of the back of their car, leaving Sam to get his bearings before they shipped out.

The younger Winchester groaned, body still stiff and tired from the lack of sleep. A headache pulsed on the bridge of his nose, causing his vision to go white whenever he tried to move. Never in his life had he ever felt more tired than he did now, and after spending a week in the hospital, it was hard to believe. Gritting his teeth against the fatigue, he pushed himself out of the car, nearly toppling over as a gentle breeze brushed past him.

Focusing his thoughts on the task at hand, he surveyed the forest in front of him. There were the slight makings of a trail here and there along the side of the highway, but nothing extended much past ten feet beyond the treeline. Mother Nature ruined every chance of making a clear cut path upwards, her trees and bushes growing wildly wherever man had dared tread upon her earth.

But it wasn't just what Sam saw that had him worried. The air around him seemed alive, burning with an invisible electricity. He felt it prickle against his skin, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. When he took a step forward, he felt the sensations grow stronger, streaming through his skin before centralizing over his sinuses. A chill ran down his spine as the pain started, burning behind his eyes.

He hissed. "Ah, geez..."

"Sammy?" Dean perked up immediately at the sound of his brother's distress. His iron grip loosened on the strap of the duffel, just in case Sam needed some help. By the looks of it, his baby brother was on the verge of having one of his crazy visions. The younger Winchester was pinching his nose with his eyes shut so tight tears were brimming on his lashes. Dean released the bag and walked to his brother's side. "Sam?"

His brother stared through him blindly, eyes shifting frantically for clarity. The blinding, white hot pain was driving itself deeper into his skull, searching through the lobes of his brain like a paper shredder on overdrive. All his muscles were tensed, fighting off the strange effect the forest had on him.

He was barely aware of Dean's hands on his shoulders, holding him upright. The pain subsided very, very slowly, allowing him to savour every second of its presence before it faded off into oblivion as quickly as it came.

"You okay?" Dean asked as the attack came to an end.

"Yeah," Sam said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I'm okay."

"Liar," his brother rolled his eyes, but went back around to the other side of the car to retrieve their stuff. "We got a couple of miles to cover before we get to the house and I don't wanna have to haul your ass all the way back to the car if you pass out on the way."

"I'm just a little tired."

"Uh huh," the older Winchester said skeptically, locking the car doors with the remote. "And tornadoes are just a little wind."

"I'm good, okay?" Sam said with a shrug, following his brother into the forest after a second of apprehension. The thought of suffering another headache was not appealing whatsoever. Thankfully, whatever force had given it to him before didn't come back. The only thing he was suffering from now was tiredness, but that was nothing new.

"Whatever," Dean tossed his head. "But after this is over you're not getting off the Valium till 2020."

He didn't know whether he said that for Sam's benefit or his.

* * *

"Okay," Dean stopped short. "I know I've seen this tree before."

His tone was completely serious, even if the statement wasn't. All the trees in the forest had passed by Sam in one big, brown blur, none of them remarkable in any way, say for their unnatural height. Each one stretched up over a hundred feet easily into a thick canopy of leaves above them. Soft sunlight streamed into whatever vacant patches it could, making the ground a mosaic of light and dark.

The gentle sounds of the wind rustling the leaves had lulled Sam's exhausted mind into a slight doze, leaving him staring straight through the ground in front of him. They had been hiking for twenty minutes now, enough to cure his insomnia with how nondescript his surroundings were. Lifting his tired eyes from the ground, he glanced back at his brother, who had stopped a couple feet back and was searching the forest for an answer to whatever question was burning in his brain.

"We're going in circles," Dean sighed, looking around the forest. The dense vegetation hid the rest of the world from view, reducing even his expert vision to a small circumference no bigger than a kiddie pool. Beyond that there was only more trees, blocking out the road and the car he knew were below them.

"Okay," Sam said suddenly, nodding as he tried to take in the new information. The two have been in some weird situations before, but this definitely took the cake. John had taught them the basics of tracking since they were young, and even though Sam had not put the teachings to practise in years, Dean's senses were sharp, well worked, and well trained. There would be no way for them to get lost with him leading the way. Besides, it was a straight path up from the car to the Withers' house. They should have found it by then, or at least found some trace of its existence. "Maybe we're on the wrong hill?" he suggested sheepishly.

"Dude, I have never been wrong," Dean said, pointing his finger towards his brother to make his point. Sam lifted his brows questioningly, shooting his brother a look that made Dean do a double take. He shrugged his shoulders in a carefree manner. "Not driving anyways," he added under his breath.

"Well, the house isn't here."

"Overstated perfectly. Thanks Sherlock."

"Is it even slightly possible that we're in the wrong spot?"

"Jesus, Sam, of course it's possible," Dean snapped before adding, "Just not probable."

Sam rolled his eyes. His brother's stubbornness was extremely irritating sometimes. Of course, there was no chance they were in the wrong spot. Not with the mighty Dean Winchester at the wheel. The house had simply gotten up and walked away when it saw them coming, because this was in no way Dean's fault.

Casting an impatient look over his shoulder, Sam found himself faced with only miles more of forest in every direction. The trees loomed all around them, limiting his vision to a certain extent, but he was pretty sure he would see a house if it were anywhere near there. They were high up on the hill, just shy of the summit, so anything resting atop would be completely visible. It was just a matter of looking.

He was just about to tell his brother to head back to the car when it hit him. Pain exploded in his sinuses like an atom bomb going off in his skull, sending shockwaves down his spine and through his limbs. Neither visions nor the attack at the car compared to the agony he felt in that instant. The world faded from focus, swallowed up by nothing but white in front of his eyes, and he felt the breath driven out of his lungs in an instant. Before he could stop himself, he had dropped to his knees. Unconsciously, he tried to pinch the bridge of his nose as he had done before, but felt his limbs restrained by a phantom energy taking up residence in his nerves. The very thought of moving sent shooting pains up and down inside him.

"Sam!" Dean's heart leapt at the sight of his brother dropping. Back at the car, he had seen a minor psychic attack, not unlike the visions Sam had in the past. Now, it looked like he was possessed. His hands were forced to his sides, restrained by some unseen force, while his head hung back, face skyward, with his eyes staring blindly at the canopy. Placing his hands on his brother's shoulders, Dean felt Sam's muscles flex under his loose grip. He fought his fright, focusing on the task at hand, and shook his brother softly. "Sammy?"

"Sam," a more feminine voice said to him, his name a statement instead of a question. "Samuel..."

"Come on, Sammy," Dean protested, trying to snap his brother out the state. "Come on. Don't do this to me, Sammy."

"Have you come to see?" she asked him, giving a soft, girlish laugh. "Have you come to finally see the truth?"

Sam felt phantom fingers run over his cheeks.

"Soon," the voice promised. "Soon..."

The hands disappeared suddenly, leaving chilled flesh in their wake. Warm blood filled his veins, freeing his limbs from their paralyzed state, and the white light in his vision faded, giving him a perfect view of the sky above. Pain still pulsated in his sinuses, holding him still, but he could breathe now, and he no longer felt like he was going to die.

"Sam?" Dean asked frantically. "Sammy, talk to me. Please, Sammy, talk to me."

The young man's bottom jaw shook as he tried to form the words he desperately wished to speak. He was forced to wait as the pain spiked and faded, though, something that took several more minutes before he was finally able to speak. "...something..."

There had been more words, but that was all he was able to form at the time. Swallowing, Sam tried again. "There's...something...here..."

"Samuel..." the female voice was back, and this time Dean could hear it too. He searched the forest for a source but found none. He and Sam were still alone.

Sam didn't seem to think so, though. He pulled his head forward and gritted his teeth, feeling the air cackle with electricity again. It was the same electrcity he'd felt at the car, only this time it was thicker, as if the air itself were made of cloth.

His chest went taught. His mouth hung open, halfway through taking a breath, when the phantom hands reappeared, grabbed him by the ankle, and tugged him out of his brother's grasp. Before Dean could even react, the hands grip tightened sharply, fingernails digging into his skin, and dragged Sam into the forest.

"SAM!"

* * *

**Author's Notes**

Sorry about the delay! It has been a busy couple of days with Canada Day, Independance Day, sleepovers, and yay! New job! Well, old job, just a new hire. I never thought I would be happy to go back, but I am. With school on the way, I am in dire need of some cash. Movies like _Superman Returns_ and _Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest _are only make it harder to save money. By the way, if you haven't seen _Superman_ - do so _now_. The movie is pure genius, and I am currently nursing a huge infatuation with the leading man Brandon Routh.

I think this chapter's pretty self-explanatory. It's loaded with a lot of information I meant to put into last chapter, but never got around to integrating it. Sorry if this was a whorlwind. I swear, the forest and Andrea Withers will be explained soon!


	18. Hands

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen: Hands

"SAM!"

Dean leapt to his feet, barely aware he was moving until he had sprinted forward several feet, following the messy trail of dirt and sediment his kid brother frantically left behind in an effort to slow his movement. Whatever had grabbed him, however, was not so easily escaped from. By the looks of it, the thing only caused Sam more injury the more he tried. The kid's jeans were already stained red with blood around his ankle, and his face was twisted from the agony of it all.

Though his legs were not as long as Sam's, Dean did have an amazing endurance level, especially when it came to his little brother. He matched the thing holding Sam step for step, keeping a constant distance of a couple feet between he and it the rest of the way up the hill.

The younger Winchester lashed out with whatever strength he could muster. Every nerve in his body seemed fixated on his ankle where the invisible fingers had lodged themselves. He felt them digging even deeper under his flesh, holding fast to the bone and muscle beneath. Forcing his brain to detach himself from the agony, he kicked the ground hard and flipped himself over, onto his back. The position gave him a bigger advantage over his attacker. It gave him the ability to look where he was going, to catch a glimpse, perhaps, of whoever or whatever was pulling him.

He took a deep breath in anticipation and slammed his right foot into his restrained left ankle, hoping to dislodge whatever force had caught there. All he succeeded in doing was causing himself more pain. The impact drove the fingers deeper into his body, hooking them completely around his bone. _Ah, fuck..._he cursed mentally, tears welling in his eyes. "Jesus...let me go!"

His only response was a stiff jerk from the hand on his ankle as the phantom limb shifted to one side. Sam was lifted completely off the ground and thrown into a nearby tree. The solid trunk hit him square on the back, knocking the breath from his lungs. He fell back to the ground, limp and senseless as white spots danced across his vision from the blow. On the bright side, at least his ankle didn't hurt anymore. The frazzled nerve endings relocated to his torso, where his lungs were relearning the simple, age-old concept of breathing.

"Oh, you bitch!" Dean shouted, the sight of that...thing hurting his brother giving him an additional burst of speed. "I'm going to fucking..."

He never got to finish. Just as he was within reaching distance of Sam, there was a rush of wind followed by a sonic boom before Dean was thrown clear off the ground. He flew backward into the trees, striking every branch and trunk that crossed his path with a huge amount of force. The wood splintered under his weight, sending small sparks of pain running rampant across his back. His mending ribs and chest went stiff from the blow, and by the time he hit the ground, he couldn't breathe.

Falling back against the moist earth, he could only watch in horror as his vision faded to darkness.

_Ah shit..._

* * *

Sam tilted his head back again in hopes to catch sight of Dean. After he was knocked back, the younger Winchester had lost sight of him. Given his position, the only thing he could do was watch and accept, seeing as how the hand wasn't letting go.

As quickly as his attention had diverted, it returned, focusing with renewed strength on his leg. Groaning, he tried to sit up and reach for it, but felt the hand jerk again, this time to the left, tossing him into another tree. He heard a popping nooise before he felt the sudden rush of heat in his side, evidence of a cracked or broken rib. His next breath was nothing more than a gasp and the edges of his vision grayed immediately after that.

He noticed that the angle of his body had changed, this time with his feet pointing downwards. He was no longer going up the hill, rather, heading downward into the valley below. Fighting the growing pain in his side, Sam lifted his head up slightly, trying to get a good look at where they were.

Hidden in the valley of thick frondescence was a small, single level house, one that Sam wouldn't have even noticed if he weren't dragged mere inches from its threshold. Time had not been kind to the structure, leaving the brick walls crumbling alongside the foundation. The door hung loosely on its rusty hinges, wound with more overgrowth that had traveled up the broken steps onto the dying porch. Shingles were sparse, as was the roof in general, leaving the whole building open like a rotting wound.

The hand released suddenly, dropping Sam heavily to the ground. A cold chill spread up his calf from his injuries, a contradictory sensation to the heat overtaking his chest. Curling in on himself, Sam strained to breathe, no longer concerned with phantom figures or bodiless voices. The pain made itself matter in that moment, rendering him immobile outside what was undoubtedly the Withers' house.

Listening to the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, he barely noticed the soft footsteps approaching him from behind. Sam willed his body to follow his commands and turned towards the sound, just as something hard connected with his skull.

* * *

Thankfully, Dean found (when consciousness returned) that he had only been out for a few minutes. During that time though, his entire body had forgotten the basic concept of moving, leaving him on the ground for another couple of minutes before he could finally return to the hunt.

He let loose a string of breathless curses, one after the other. Every bad word he had ever learned from birth came out in a long line that would leave even his own father stunned, and John Winchester had taught Dean everything he knew about obscenities. While they didn't bring his brother back, or kill the thing that took him away, they did make him feel a little better. If anything, they took his mind off the inability to breathe, which was becoming increasingly worrisome, especially when his vision started to gray...again.

Digging his fingers into the ground, he waited for the cement binding his ribs to loosen. He closed his eyes tightly, able to feel tears streaming down his cheeks from the fire emploding along his intercostal muscles. "Ah, God," he coughed. "God damn..." he slowed his breathing, turning his focus inwards so he could slow everything else down too. His heart was still racing from the chase not ten minutes before. He could feel the blood pulsating hard in his temples and fingertips, making his muscles shake from the pressure. _Easy Dean,_ his father's guttural baritone reminded him in the usual tone he took when trying to calm his eldest son. Usually, the warning was followed with a stern look for Dean to get himself under control else face his father's wrath.

Though borderline child abuse in the eyes of society, visualizing his father actually helped him. Slowly but surely, the tension across his torso loosened, drawing itself outward to accomodate his deepening breaths. He sighed, satisfied that his lungs learned how to work properly again, and Dean finally stood up.

He peered over his shoulder at the hilltop. "Sam?" he asked, shivering as his voice echoed across the forest. It was his only response besides the rustle of leaves above him as the wind swept through the canopy. There was a sense of dead calm all across the forest, one that made it hard to breathe again for fear he would miss something. A part of him waited for his brother to emerge from the trees, limping from his leg wound, but completely unharmed besides that. Another part, unfortunately a larger one, knew that this wouldn't be the case. Whatever had Sam wasn't going to give him up without a fight.

_Well if that's what it wants_, he thought, turning back around to face the road. Lying several feet from where he had been thrown was their duffel bag, filled with enough ammunition to take out a small army of the supernatural. Staggering over to it, wary of his injuries both old and new, not an easy task considering he was still a week shy of being completely healed from the accident. Still, he berated himself for being such a baby about it. Sam was out there somewhere, alive and hurt badly if Dean's memory served him correctly, and here he was crawling up the rear because of a couple hurt ribs.

"Stop being such a baby," his father's voice was back as he picked up the duffel bag, groping inside it for a weapon. His face contorted into a permanent wince as the bruised muscles in his chest tightened again. "You're hunting right now, Dean. Got no time to play possum just 'cuz your chest hurts."

" 'm not playing possum," he wanted to say, but never did. That was Sam's area of expertise, not his.

Filling the magnum with bullets, he slung the duffel bag onto his back and headed off into the forest. "Hang on, Sammy," he said to the emptiness around him. "I'm coming."

* * *

James Sullivan was easy to recognize. Even handcuffed to the central post in the middle of a dingy basement, surrounded by darkness, she was an unmistakable presence. It wasn't her expensive clothing or her air of aristocratic arrogance, though they were big hints about her identity. Sam couldn't articulate it exactly. He knew her by the scent she carried, the aura she permeated, the way she made him feel whenever he felt her enter a vision. It was a smooth cocktail for the senses, dangerous and provocative like a caged tiger.

Her lip had been split in two places and her nose had only recently stopped bleeding, leaving her nostrils lined with a thin layer of coagulated blood. Bruises were already starting to form along her hairline and around her eyes. Her soft brown irises were all but swallowed up by her pupils, attempting to pierce through the inky blackness around her.

Sam didn't dare move, though whether that was his choice or the vision's mandate, he wasn't sure. He watched as she shifted uncomfortably, bound by heavy chains to keep her virtually immobile in her lightless prison. The movement wasn't one of attempted ecape but rather, an open act of defience to whoever was keeping her locked up.

A fire burst to life in a hearth not far from where she sat, illuminating her pale face, gleaming off the perspiration lining her skin. Her artificial blonde hair curled in messy knots around her shoulders, collecting in clumps from the dirt, blood, and sweat streaming off her scalp. The sudden appearance of light caused her to flinch with a small, tortured scream.

"Silence," the thousands of demonic voices snapped, sending visible tremors throughout James' body. She hunched over as best she could, hands still cuffed tightly behind her back, limiting her movements greatly. If she curled over on herself anymore she would pop her shoulders out of joint.

"To think that you are the Order's chosen," the voices mocked. "Pathetic."

"Tell me...where she is," James demanded, lifting her head. She wasn't wimpering anymore. Her eyes had narrowed into slits, ones that made herstare fixed like a bullet ready to fire. She turned towards the flames, unafraid of what dangers might await her in the fire.

Sam had become all too accustomed to the sound of bones cracking in his dreams by now. The crone prophetess had been ripping out his eyes night after night despite all of his attempts to avoid sleep. She haunted his waking world as well, and it took every ouonce of will power not to lash out at everyone and everything that crossed his path. The sounds descended a small wooden staircase, emanating from a heavily cloaked figure making her way towards James.

"You will never find her," the crone said, kneeling down to James' height. "She is hidden behind a wall of deceit beyond your power to penetrate."

"Just tell me where she is," James begged, eyes still dangerous even though her voice betrayed her powerful facade.

The crone seemed to smirk beneath her cloak. "I'll do better than that: I'll show you where she is."

She moved so quickly it only registered as sound in Sam's mind. Her joints snapped in rapid succession, as she slammed a hand over James' mouth. The young woman let out a muffled scream, back arching in order to free herself from the assault. The attempt only amused the crone more, if that were possible. She ran her long nails over top of James' brow, bringing them to a halt just between her eyes, right above the bridge of her nose.

There was a moment of pure, uninterrupted silence, but it was merely the calm before the storm. James' muffled scream filled the room a second later, her eyes closed so tight Sam could see tears streaming down her cheeks, running over the crone's long, crooked fingers.

"Do you see her, James?" the crone asked, her voices darkening. "Your sister is in hell. And you will join her soon enough."

* * *

At first all Sam saw was red, though whether his eyes were open or not was a mystery. He could feel anything inside of him except the over heated sensations of his own blood sloshing back and forth beneath his skin, throbbing in his temples, leaving him swollen and thick like a living bruise.

Eventually, the muffled feeling lessoned, along with the crimson colour in his vision. As the shadows of the world drifted lazily around him, he grew increasingly aware that he was being dragged again, this time by his uninjured leg. His protests came out as a low moan, throat constricting painfully at even the thought of speaking.

"Shhh..." a voice hushed from above him, chilling rather than comforting. Sam ignored it, trying to find the strength to move again. His body was nothing but dead weight, occassionally burning with white hot pain from his ankle, chest, and head. He could feel blood oozing out of a wound on his temple, clinging like mollasses to his eyelid. Everything swam in his line of vision, rippling like waves on a dark ocean, with only occassional splashed of colour when he lifted his head enough to look upon his captor.

A small glint of silver caught his eye before his neck muscles gave out and his head dropped back to the floor. He saw red again, just before he fell back into darkness.

_Thud...thud...thud..._

He thought it was his heartbeat, but was conscious enough a second later to realize that he was being dragged down a flight of stairs, and every thud was his head being dropped onto another step. Dark clouds hovered on the edge of his vision, blocking out the blinding firelight he was approaching.

Samfelt heat swept over his skin, mildly soothing in his semi-conscious state, but more frightening as he was brought closer. He pulled his eyelids open to face his captor, finding the figure standing just beside the fireplace. Bile rose in his throat as he caught sight of her silver hair hanging out from behind her hood, and the pentacle star around her neck when she turned towards him.

Fighting his own weakness, he pushed himself across the dirt floor with his elbows, unable to make it very far before the woman was upon him, descending upon him as the demon in his nightmare had that night in the Impala. Her bones cracked as she did so, knuckles snapping like twigs as she grabbed his shoulders and pinned him against the floor.

"There's no use running," she said, her voice the culmination of thousands of others, each one coming out of her single mouth. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? To see, without the illusions of life to blind you. You came here to know the truth, Samuel Winchester. The truth about all the children like you."

Choking on the bile rising in his throat, Sam watched in horror as she tossed another log on her fire. Smoke filled the room, clouding his already dulled senses and leaving him utterly breathless. The woman lifted her hands to her hood and threw back the feeble piece of fabric, revealing a perfect, serpentine face underneath her thick, messy layers of silver hair. Her milky white eyes stared directly into Sam's soul, giving him shivers throughout his body despite the heat.

"I am Andrea Withers," she hissed, voice lowering dramatically. "And I'm going to make you see the truth, just like those girls all those years ago."

She pulled a pair of scissors out of her robes and set to work.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I apologize. This chapter isn't nearly as long as I wanted it to be. What I do know is that the next few chapters should be much more informative, and a little more fun than watching Sam go through a capture sequence reminiscient of his _House of Wax_ death scene. On the plus side - Dean was unconscious and perfectly vulnerable to anyone hiding in the bushes wanting to drag him out of harm's way. Any takers?

Normally, I don't write from the insert's perspective. I truly believe that fanfiction should be told from canon characters' point of view only. So I integrated James via vision, something I hope was more respectful to the brothers.

I'm also sorry that it's taken me so long to write the recent chapters. Not only am I working more, I hit a wall with this chapter, one that I had to plow through in order to finally get a chapter worth posting. Hope it's up to par, and if it isn't, I hope you'll come back for the next one!


	19. Order and Chaos

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of WB and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen: Order and Chaos

St. Mary's hadn't changed much over the years. The decor remained consistant since its establishment and only required a couple touch ups over the years. 1974 did, however, see the dawn of a new colour scheme, rejuvenating the tired buildings on campus from their boring, basic mahogany and white to colder colours. Blues and green were slathered on every wall, from the soft minty tones in the dining room to the sharp ceruleans of the residences. It made the school seem much more alive than it did in recent times, making it less like a prison.

The uniforms, too, had only undergone minor alterations. Nineteenth century America would not have allowed young women to parade around in skirts above the ankle, bodies shaped by the lines of fabric instead of a corset's whale bone. But since the early twentieth century, the evolution of the St. Mary's uniform had slowed considerably. The only thing that changed drastically was the length of the skirt, rising higher and higher until it rested at or slightly above the knee. It was here that the St. Mary's colour scheme first became apparent, with tartans of blue, black and white plaid acting as their signature. The navy sweaters and cardigans bearing the school's emblem were shed in favour of tailored white blouses, clearly showing the elegant curves possessed by seemingly all members of the student body.

A warm summer wind breezed past Sam as he stood on the outskirts of one of St. Mary's many courtyards, watching the events unfold before him. As usual, his actions were not his own, and he felt like he was a prisoner inside his own body. No matter how much he rebelled against the vision, something held him steady, forcing him to stand witness.

"I didn't take the Sullivan girl."

He turned placidly, heart leaping at the sound of the voice, but his body remained steady, his movements controlled, as if he had expected the girl to sneak up on him. She was a tall girl, only a couple inches shorter than him, and possessed a beauty unlike anything Sam had ever seen before. Her pale skin gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, pure and perfect as if she were carved out of marble. She had a cherub face framed with sleek, blonde hair parted directly down the center, giving her an almost inhuman symmetry. Her bright blue eyes sparkled like sapphires, slightly slanted like cat's eyes, though her smooth brow and narrow chin made her look more like a serpent with a secret malice hidden away behind her angelic appearance. Sam wasn't sure whether he should quiver in fear or anticipation for what she had planned.

Fear eventually won, especially when he realized who he was looking at. The girl now standing at his side was Andrea Withers, returned to her former glory through the magic of precognition or telepathy or both. For all he knew, he was stuck in a rift in the space time continuum, and, given his recent string of shitty luck, probably was.

"I didn't kill her sister either," she admitted, reading Sam's mind effortlessly. He could feel her inside his skull, waltzing through his thoughts and memories, able to drift casually from one impulse to the next. "Though I was seriously considering it. No, her end is coming, and it is better than anything I could have come up with."

He opened his mouth to speak, but was stopped short. Her gaze locked with his suddenly. "You have questions that I don't have the answers too, it's true."

"What have you done with Dean?"

"Sent him wandering," she said simply. "Besides, he's not the focus of this conversation, is he? Not really."

"If you hurt him..." he began.

"Of course: you'll skin me alive. You'll riddle me with bullets. You'll cut off my head and feed it to some lesser animal," Andrea rolled her eyes. Somehow, no matter how condescending she had intended the action to be, her irritation only made her more attractive. "May I compliment your ability to fight me off so far. I'm terrified to see what you'll do to me next. Lay prostrate and try to scramble away some more?"

Sam pursed his lips, eyes narrowing on her. Andrea laughed merrily, the sound of her giggles like a thousand angels singing in unison. Yet, throughout it all, she was still agonizingly beautiful, her looks only intensified by her cruel comments towards him, less like a cat and more like the snake she was. "You could have torn me limb from limb if you wanted. You have the abilities, Sam, but not the will to use them. Like so many before, the idea of power frightens you."

"I don't want to hurt people," he shook his head.

"But you will," she replied calmly. "It's in your very nature to cause chaos. Order of the universe at its finest."

"Cause chaos like you? When you murdered those four girls?"

Andrea didn't even try to justify her actions. Instead, she turned her sights to the courtyard, eyes fixing on a particular group of girls that had segregated themselves from the rest. They sat on the grass beyond the cobblestones like Roman Goddesses, two seated comfortably while the other two laid their heads on their lap and shoulder. The moment was picturesque really, the classic private school photograph, with the four Queen Bees on their metaphoric thrones as their loyal, unworthy subjects scattered around them like dung beetles next to peacocks. The same could be said for every school Sam had attended, and he was in exactly the same position now as he had been back then - the bystander, the lowly insect under the shoe of the homecoming queen.

Without ever being told, Sam knew them by name. The angular brunette in the center of it all was Dahlia Talos, the conniving mastermind of the whole group. It was easy to see. The rest of the group gravitated around her, drawn to that power and protection she offered in the social hierarchy. All for a price though, Sam knew, having seen many girls fall to pieces in such a circle, stung one too many times by the Queen Bee. Yet they still came back, the pleasure of being in such highly regarded company worth all the pain.

Resting on her shoulder was Kiersten Helfer, a bubbly blonde who was, more than likely, the group's confidante. Dahlia's personal space was a no trespassing zone to everyone else but her. She wasn't a doormat though. She was nearly an equal, a girl who made less trouble for Dahlia as an ally than an enemy.

Francis Mahone was the red head laying her head on the dark haired Beatrice's legs, each of them subordinates to the other two. Neither one looked as smart as the other two nor as pretty. For all intents and purposes, they were average, say for the company they kept. Their names popped into Sam's head as he looked at them, unable to pull his eyes from them, even as Andrea began speaking.

"Pathetic, aren't they?" he could hear her roll her eyes again as she spoke. "Little Queens of St. Mary's. They deserved what they got."

"They were just girls."

She laughed again. "Just girls? Yes, I suppose their feeble, girlish exterior would suggest simplicity to the human minded but you are not human minded, Sam. And neither are they."

"You're crazy, Andrea," Sam shook his head and tried to walk away, but Andrea's power pinned his feet to the ground. He could feel her shut down the nerves in his thighs and calves and freeze the joints in his knees. And even if he could get away, there would be nowhere to run. Andrea was guarding all the doors in this vision, holding all the keys. He didn't have to be psychic to know that there was nothing he could do.

"Not going to comfort me like you did Max?" she cocked her delicate brows questioningly, though the statement was purely rhetorical. Sam looked away from her at the mention of the name, jaw tightening in frustration. "We're two peas in a pod, Sam. My own mother was pinned to my nursery ceiling over fifty years ago, just like yours, just like Max's, just like the Sullivan girl's. There's no fine line separating any of us from the same paths. And while Max was on a mission of vengeance, my own was a mission of truth. Those girls were no different from the monsters your father had you kill."

"They're human beings."

"No," she spat, voice growing colder as his denial grew stronger. They were matched at an impasse, both empassioned by the topic at hand. "You have to understand, Sam. You're in the middle of a war, a war that has been waged for centuries beneath the human eye, under mortal flesh. Those girls were the generals in an army known only as the Order, an ancient society that has existed in St. Mary's since it was established."

The young Winchester sighed and shook his head. _This is crazy_, he thought. _Get out of here, Sam. Get out now._

Andrea took a step towards him, tilting her head upwards to look him straight in the eye. She somehow managed to become even more domineering as they grew closer together. He didn't dare take a step back, fearful of showing his fear, knowing that if anything, it gave her more power over him.

She lifted a finger and pointed towards his chest, directly above where she had drawn the pentacle a few nights before. He winced from the contact, the bruise stinging painfully from her fingernail pressing against it. "You've seen the pentacles around their necks, that snakelike expression on their faces. They are the first born daughters of Adam, the lilin. Just like Max, just like James," she paused for dramatic effect, "And just like you."

There it was. Like the atomic bomb being dropped on Hiroshima, Sam felt the weight of those words strike him in a mushroom cloud of fury, blasting whatever preconceived notions he had about his lineage to bits before his eyes. _Stop it, Sam_, the logical part of him warned. _This woman is disturbed. She doesn't know what she's talking about._

But the passionate side of him, the side nurtured by the spitfire personalities of both his father and his brother, told him that what she was saying was true. There wasn't any way she could be lying, not with words that sure and information that sound.

_This woman has been in a position to know everything from the start_, the logical half of him warned. _She's a telepath, Sam, and she's using your memories against you._

"What do you want?" he dared to ask, mouth tight from frustration.

"I want this to end," she replied. So simple, so precise, though what she meant by 'this' was beyond Sam. 'This' meant any number of things: the war, the possessions, the powers she possessed. It could be all or nothing, everything or anything with a woman whose psychic talents were as limitless as hers. Sam could feel her drawing psionic energies towards her, building up her power reserves, creating an unnatural calm before the storm.

When, at last, she unleashed her onslaught, Sam recoiled. His eyes burned, impaled on white hot pokers that were working their way into his skull. Grabbing his face, he suppressed the urge to scream for as long as he could, but found it impossible with the pain diving deeper and deeper, millimeter by agonizing millimeter. His mind flickered back and forth, in and out of the dreamscape and reality so quickly he suffered a bought of vertigo a second later. Part of him was still connected to the waking world, and he was having hot flashes from a fire burning not far from his body. The other part was at St. Mary's, worried that his eyes were draining down his face from the pressure inside his sockets.

Memories flashed through his mind of the crone and her fingernails, and he struggled to free himself from Andrea's telekinetic grasp. "Let...me...go..." he groaned.

"No," she said menacingly, and deepened the penetration into his skull. Sam let out a strangled cry, lashing out with whatever psychic energy he could grasp at that moment. His frantic attempts to control his abilities only made Andrea laugh again, her voice melding with a thousand others like her crone counterpart's did. "If you wish to survive, you will need the gift I'm about to give you."

He barely heard her. His ears were ringing with the sounds of nightmarish screams, ones he recognized immediately. They were the ones he had never managed to save, the ones he wasn't strong enough or fast enough to rescue before they met their end. His mother, Max's father, Jessica...

_Why, Sam?_

"Don't fight me, Sam," Andrea hissed, stepping forward. "You're so much stronger than them. Embrace that power. Let me help you realize your true potential."

Gripping his skull so hard he thought it might break from the pressure, Sam strained to respond to her. The fingers had stopped, lingering at the membrane between his eyes sockets and his brain. Their fire was spreading, pulsating through his skull and down his spine as it spread, leaving him clinging to the only syllable that mattered right now in his vocabulary.

Just as his grasp of the word started to slip, he managed to say it aloud.

"No..."

And then suddenly, the pain stopped, and darkness descended upon him.

* * *

Sam awoke to the sound of groaning, but couldn't be sure if it was coming from him or someone else. Either way, the small grunts of frustration coaxed him gradually into awareness, bridging a gap between his detached state and his physical form.

He recognized the symptoms of a concussion fairly quickly, as if they were hard to notice. The foggy stupor, the borderline migraine, the nausea...it was common knowledge to Sam by now, being the recipient of several head injuries over the years. _Too many_, he thought. Not many people could diagnose a concussion while concussed.

There was another groan, breathless and exasperated. By now, Sam was aware enough to know that it wasn't his. The sound drifted into his ears from behind, and was followed by stiff, jerking movements against his lower back.

His adrenaline surged from the touch, and Sam threw his head back suddenly, eyes wide in shock. He hit the back of his skull against something hard...a wall? No, the surface was curved slightly, rounded, and it wasn't nearly long enough to constitute a wall. Soft, golden light carrassed the world in front of him, giving birth to long shadows impossible to penetrate. He heard the familiar popping sound of wood burning and could taste the smoke on his tongue, so dry he was wheezing. The heat made his fever rise and his nausea double, causing the burning sensation of his cracked rib more pervasive and insistant than ever. Someone had cut open his shirt from the waist to the neck, leaving him completely bare, pentacle bruise beaming even in the darkness. Cold sweat trickled over his head and chest, sending chills across his bare skin.

The fingers went still beneath his back. "You awake?" someone whispered.

"Yeah," Sam replied, trying to keep his voice quiet despite the dryness in his throat. He glanced over his shoulder, able to see the makings of another person on the opposite side of the post in his periphery. The fire light gleamed off a mess of bleached blonde hair strewn wildly about the other person's shoulder, blocking their face from view, but Sam already knew it was James. The vision on his way into this hell hole had been enough. During his black out, he had been tied up directly behind her, with his hands bound tightly at her sides. His legs too, were subjected to the same treatment, wrapped in thick rope and tied in impossibly intricate knots.

"I thought maybe she killed you," James admitted, voice as quiet as breath.

"What did she do to me?" he asked, starting to struggle with his own ropes. His fingers were tingling with pins and needles when he pulled, but it was the pain in his skull that eventually forced him to give up. He fell back against the pole, thoroughly wasted though the fight had only lasted several seconds.

"I don't know," she replied, returning to her initial struggle with her bonds. Sam arched his back without being asked, giving her room to maneuver without the crushing weight of his body against hers. The action didn't do much though, and no matter how much James pulled, her ropes weren't coming loose. Surrendering to the idea of capture once again, she introduced herself. "I'm James, by the way."

"Sam," he started fighting with his own ropes again. She alloted him the same courtesy he showed her, getting out of his way to give him more room to work with. Even with all his perspiration, the ropes still weren't coming loose, and the only thing he managed to do was aggrevate his injuries. Every inch of his body screamed for him to stop in unison. _Please_, he begged whatever supreme deity happened to be listening. _Just cut me this one break...please._

No such luck. Andrea's knots held fast against their combined efforts, including an attempt at telekinetic intervention courtesy of Sam. Nothing. No choice but to give in, no matter how painful it was to do so. He cast a wanting look over his shoulder towards the staircase behind him, wondering if he stared hard enough he could will Dean into existence.

His blood ran cold as the memories returned. Being dragged through the forest had been on the last thing on his mind given his recent imprisonment. Prior to having his rib broken, he distinctly recalled Dean being thrown into a tree or two by an unseen force. _He better be alright_, Sam clenched his fists. _If she hurt him, I swear..._

James grunted again, awakening him from his reverie. "Got it," she said, and after a split second to ponder exactly what she meant, he heard ropes snapping, just as she withdrew her hands from underneath his back. It took another couple of minutes, but she finally managed to undo the ropes around her ankles. Still heavily restrained, Sam could only listen as she crawled across the earthen floor, dirt meeting denim to produce a scratching, animalistic noise. It was music to Sam's ears, especially when he felt her hands on his, working whatever magic she had on her own ropes on his.

The ropes tightened momentarily before breaking. Blood drained into his limbs sending pins and needles from his fingertips to his elbows. He held back a wince, feeling out of touch with his usual reality. Since when was a Winchester the damsal in distress? _I've officially entered the backwards universe_, Sam thought, shaking out his hands to get the blood flowing again. _Any second now pigs will start flying and boy bands will play instruments._

"Can you walk?" she asked, coming around to his front. He was already reaching for his ankles, keeping his movements slow to keep the pain in his chest and skull at bay. Too bad his body didn't feel the same way. In typical Winchester fashion, his body gave him the proverbial middle finger, forcing him to turn away from the approaching woman and vomit off to the side instead of his lap and her face. Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on how he looked at it, he hadn't eaten much within the past few days. So while he was saved the embarrassment of retching in front of her, he dry heaved nothing but bile six or seven times before stopping. His vision went black for a few seconds, mind detaching from his body giving him a brief reprieve from the pain.

"Whoa, Jesus..." James cursed, worlds away from where Sam had gone. _Five more minutes_, he thought, having every intention of swatting away her hands as she pinned him gently against the post to keep him from falling to the floor. He was only slightly aware of her fingers prying open his eyelids. "Oh God, your pupils are fucked. Wake up, Sam. Wake up..."

She tapped him lightly on the cheeks, dragging him forcibly into the land of the living again. Pain pounced upon him, dulled only by his head injury, something that was only exacerbated by her zealous taps and probing. Fuck, was she a pre-med or an actual doctor? Her touches made his stomach lurch forward, so much so that he thought he might vomit again. Noticing his discomfort, James backed off, running her hands over the ropes on his ankles.

Her fingers never moved, running over the knots slowly as if memorizing their patterns. She stared at the ground as the muscles in her face tightened in concentration. The ropes went taught, issuing a small cry from Sam as his wounded ankle was caught in a vice-like grip. Seconds later, there was a snap, and the tension around his limbs loosened.

Blood streamed back into his feet, sending small shivers of pain creeping quickly up his leg. He winced, drawing the limb closer to his body to examine it. There was a large, gaping hole just above his heel, spewing blood all over the floor, while the muscle and tendons beneath felt loose around the bone, pulled and strained by the ghostly fingers that had dug themselves underneath.

The look that appeared on James' face was anything except optimistic. Her features were pinched in a mixture of disgust and disbelief from how horrible the wound looked. Not that he could blame her. Even in the throes of another dizzy spell, he was well aware of the mangled flesh above his foot. _Skin's not supposed to look like scrambled eggs_, he thought with a wince. Resisting the urge to touch it, he worked on ripping strips of his already ruined clothing in order to bind it. Dizzily, he fumbled with the limb, wrapping the thin strips of fabric around it. James reached to help him, but he shook his head. "I got it. Thanks."

With a slight nod, she turned her sights on the staircase. Sam knew what she was thinking and, looking for a way to distract himself from the pain, kept talking. "Is she gone?"

"I think so. She took off a couple minutes ago. I heard the door close. If we're going to go, it should be now. Can you walk?"

Sam stared at her a moment longer, yearning to interrogate her further, but he knew better. This was probably their only chance for escape. He nodded in response, and started to stand.

* * *

Dean was at a loss for acceptable terms to describe his plight. 'Pissed off' seemed to weak, and even 'really fucking angry' did not come close to adequately explaining his exact state of mind. Given the gravity of his situation, he figured he was perfectly entitled. Not only had his brother been dragged off, he'd been thrown to the ground, nearly broke his ribs again, and then left to wander aimlessly through miles of uncharted and potentially haunted Massachusettes forest.

He grit his teeth before digging his way intoanotherthickening mass of leaves and branches. It seemed the deeper he moved, the tighter it became, with very little space of maneuver on either side. By the time he started moving down the opposite slope of the hill, there was barely any room to breathe.

"I am gonna kill you," he murmurred, pushing his way through the vegetative mess as fast as he could. "I'm gonna kill you with a big, fat, fucking smile on my face...ow!"

A sharp branch snapped out of nowhere and hit him straight on the face.

He reached up and pressed a hand against his cheek, able to feel blood begin to flow into the narrow cut running outwards from his nose. "Oh," he said, in shock over how low and petty the blow really was. "Is that the best you got! HUH?"

Another branch snapped out of nowhere, blindingly fast, swooping down towards his head. This time, Dean was more prepared for it. He dropped to his knees and rolled out of the way as another branch continued the onslaught, then another, until the whole forest was a creature with the intent to kill him.

Dean couldn't help but feel satisfied when the feeling was so easy to attain. Taunting was the only line of assault he had at that particular moment and it was working like a charm. The offending branches were so busy trying to attack him they paved a narrow path for him to pass through, with enough space to retalliate against them if need be.

Leaping down the last of the hill, he paused for a moment in the valley. The trees grew dangerously thick in the area, their branches intertwining in a vast web that would be near impossible to penetrate. The roots coiled upwards fromt the earth, each one knotted around another in a giant cancerous mass. There was a smalltwo foot gap from the ground up, but beyond crawling, Dean didn't see anyway inside.

"Fine," he said, setting the duffel on the ground as safe a distance from the offending foliage as possible. Another branch swung down and nearly took his hand off, but Dean's erratic pacing kept them at bay for the time being. He stared under the branches at the shadowy tunnels underneath. Sam's fingernails had left an unmistakable path of chaffed wood leading straight to him. And while the thought of dying at the hands, or rather, limbs of a tree was embarrassing, saving his brother was first on his list of priorities. No tree, personified or no, was going to hold him back when it came to Sam's well being.

"Fine. Is this how you wanna play it? You're gonna have to do better than that. I was born to crawl, bitch. I'm the crawl-master!"

He dropped on all fours and started into the thicket. "Okay..." he whispered, realizing just how pathetic he sounded. "Never saying that aloud again."

He had moved a few inches when he felt the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against the back of his neck.

"Ah, shit..."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I'm so sorry! I keep promising more Dean and have been writing Sam more and more these past couple chapters. I hope the small bit at the end was entertaining nonetheless, and I will try to work more of the older Winchester in later. I didn't realize the story was so Sam-centric.

This chapter took me the longest to write. I find that I have been losing my muse these past couple installments, becoming more and more interested in other projects. It's nothing that a few _Supernatural_ re-runs won't fix though. I just need to get onto the finer points of the mythology I created for the story and I'll be less inclined to just give up. Plus, the feedback is so encouraging! I couldn't imagine leaving anyone hanging. This is my highest reviewed story to date, which, having only posted two stories, isn't saying much. But the fact that this is my second fic is pretty amazing. Thank you all so much!


	20. Mind Over Matter

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Nineteen: Mind Over Matter

Sam never realized how much life sucked until he was forced to endure thirteen steps of pure, unadulterated hell. And while James continuously insisted that she was completely capable of helping him, he found himself reiterating that he was fine, really; though he never understood whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

The journey upstairs had started fine. Standing up was a chore, that was true, but after a couple of minutes wallowing in the spirals of his dizzying existence, he found that walking was fairly simple as long as he kept his head as steady as possible. There was very little he could do about the pain in his chest aside from shallow breathing, but the purpose was defeated when he started to walk. The movement jostled the injury so much he was forced to decide that breathing wasn't really worth it anyways, and to settle on wheezing instead.

His ankle became a lifesaver after that. Applying even a small amount of pressure on the wounded ligament caused him so much pain it overshadowed the rib completely. Biting down on his bottom lip, he held back a scream and pressed onward, reaching the first step without any indication he was suffering.

"You sure you're okay?" she asked. He hid his discomfort, nodding shakily as a response before climbing up another step. James wasn't convinced, even cocked a brow as she watched him try and keep up with her. Wordlessly, she observed him from her place on the top step, waiting for him to crumple under the pressure. The time never came though, and Sam made it to the top step without the smallest sign of the agony he was really in.

_I told you so_, he wanted to say, but breathing came first on his list of priorities, and he settled on just an intense stare in her general direction. James rolled her eyes. _Men_, she seemed to say, just as she opened the basement door.

Natural light filled the stairwell, temporarily blinding Sam. He leaned against the wall, pulling his clothing tightly around him to hide his nude form underneath. James didn't seem to be paying attention anyways, too busy trying to figure out whether they were alone in the house or not.

Apparently they were, seeing as how James climbed out of the basement a second later and held the door open for Sam to follow. "Come on," she urged, casting nervous glances over her shoulders just to be sure Andrea didn't return. Sam stumbled up the last of the steps, keeping his face hidden from James' wandering stare. He leaned heavily against the door frame, needing a moment to regroup before pressing on. Without looking directly at her, he could feel her eyes moving over him. The concern was familiar, but that didn't make it any less irritating.

She finally broke the awkward silence. "Look, I..."

"I'm fine," he said with a sure nod, eyeing her intently to prove his point. "Besides...we gotta get moving."

He received no argument from her, most likely because there wasn't one even with his less than perfect physical condition. Nothing she could say or do would fix that. She settled on the silence Sam so desperately desired at that moment, and took charge of the situation by locating their nearest exit.

The front door lay just around the corner, past two empty doorways that just screamed ambush in Sam's overly paranoid mind. He inched a little further, peeking his head out beside hers just in case Andrea leapt out from one of those rooms.

Neither of them breathed, listening hard to the house. The old wood creaked and splintered from even the slightest movement, a verifiable nightengale floor that lashed out at anyone or anything who dared tread across it. Sam was relying heavily on Andrea Withers' cracking joints and flimsy floorboards; hoping and praying that the noise would give them even a small warning. Beggars couldn't be choosers, and all he was looking for was a slight advantage. Hell, at that point, _any_ advantage would do.

Sam took a brave step forward, wincing as he did so. The floor let out a long moan, one that shook the very foundations the house was built upon. The walls trembled precariously, threatening to cave in on top of them. He held most of his weight on his other leg to compensate not only against the unsteady surface but the pain that flared to life in his injured leg. Pressing a hand against the wall to balance, he leaned forward to check the room.

It was empty. He sighed softly, relieved for the time being, but still breathless with anticipation about the next doorway. Gesturing for James to follow, he readied himself for the next room.

The floor croaked and snapped under his feet, sending shock waves up his calf, straight through his ankle. His knee gave out, sending him falling towards the floor in a flurry of creaks, groans, and his single tortured cry. He made a sluggish attempt to break his fall, but was grabbed suddenly from behind, suspended mere inches from the floor.

_On the bright side_, he thought with a groan_, you get an excellent view of the next room_; which was, again, empty.

James eased him down to the floor, rolling him onto his back in the process. For someone with such small shoulders, she certainly packed a lot of strength. "Easy, easy," she urged, tugging his shirt closed over his chest again awkwardly, as if their proximity wasn't bad enough. Seconds later though, he felt her fingers peel back the fabric, curious as to what was underneath.

Regaining some of his composure, he grabbed her by the wrists and forced her hands away, but not before she caught a glimpse of his battered chest. "Jesus..." she hissed. "What the hell did she do to you?"

"It's nothing," he spat, scrambling to stand again. He managed to prop himself up on his elbows. "We've got to..."

He never got the chance to finish. Just as he lifted his gaze to meet James', Andrea Withers' waltzed out behind her, appearing out of nowhere. "LOOK OUT!" Sam shouted, making a mad grab for her only to touch nothing but air. James had whipped around to look, but never finished the action. Andrea struck her across the face, sending her into the fragile walls with bone breaking force, before grabbing a large clump of James' hair and dragging the girl into the empty room Sam had just inspected.

"Conniving little whore," Andrea cursed, pulling hard on James' scalp.

"Let me go!" the younger woman screamed, thrashing out with all her limbs to free herself. She clung to the door frame and dug her heels into the floor, ripping her head forward so suddenly a large clump of her hair was ripped out in the process, forcing Andrea to reassess her grip around James' neck this time.

"JAMES!" Sam shouted, climbing to his feet despite the pain. Andrea Withers' laughed coldly as she threw James to the floor and whipped around to face the younger Winchester as he approached.

The room was just as worn as the rest of the house, if not more so. Spiders thrived in the corners where the dry wall had fallen away, showing thick clouds of webbing crawling with black arachnids both large and small. Ear wig carcasses and exoskeletons were scattered across the floor, covered in dust just like every other surface. The broken remains of furniture were piled in a soot filled hearth.

"Your determination is admirable," she hissed, "But foolish nonetheless. I already told you I wouldn't kill her."

A cruel smile appeared on her face then, a smile that made Sam's inside implode inside his chest only partly out of pity for James. The other part was triggered by the vision he had recently experienced, because no matter how old he was and how much he had seen, that face was scary as hell. It was a face shaped and coddled by pure malice both natural and supernatural, carved from wickeness and smoothed by sadism. She wasn't the common poltergeist, angry spirit, werewolf, or shape-shifter. Hell, she even beat out the Benders, all because of that snide smirk she regarded Sam with. In an instant, he knew what hell looked like, all because of Andrea Withers' cold smile.

"Then why take her? It's me you want isn't it?" he demanded, eyes shifting from Andrea to James. The younger woman was shaking with rage, breathing raggedly as she worked on getting back to her feet. "Let her go and you can do whatever you want to me."

Andrea's eyes narrowed to paper-thin slits. "Yes," she sneered, "I can."

Sam felt the air around him go light as Andrea prepared for another psychic outburst. However, before she could unleash another migraine upon him, James threw her hand out to the side. She never touched Andrea, but the blow was effective nonetheless. Andrea was thrown back into the side wall, filling the room with the sound of bones shattering.

James jumped to her feet and headed towards the door, while Sam could only stare at Andrea's prone body with a cold realization. It wasn't Andrea who was drawing in psychic power.

It was James.

Before he could ask about it, she had grabbed him by the wrist and yanked him forcibly from the room. "Come on," she demanded, heading towards the front door.

Floors and walls creaked behind them, resonating through the tiny house, acting just as Sam hoped. It told him that Andrea was moving, getting back on her feet, and his instincts told him she was pissed. He felt the air rush past him faster, drawn by Andrea's soundless call. The world seemed to slow in turning, crashing to a halt just before the aged psychic could unleash her fury upon them.

There was a split second separating them from the door, but Sam knew they wouldn't make it. "DUCK!" he shouted, pulling James to the floor with him. It took her the last pressure moment they had to respond, but he finally tugged her down.

And that's when 'it' happened. Andrea's cold laughter danced up and down the halls like a child with a toy as the walls started to shake. A loud boom exploded from behind them, radiating outwards from Andrea's body, slicing through the walls like a saw blade. Sam felt heat race overtop of his head, skimming his scalp before fading into oblivion again. Boards snapped as walls shattered, sending the remaining pieces of the roof tumbling down on top of them.

* * *

It was official: Dean Winchester was going to kill someone. Hopefully that someone would be Andrea Withers, but the multitude of Boston Police officers surrounding him would do just nicely for the time being. In his mind, killing Andrea was just an eventual process, regardless of any other homicides he committed along the way. And whether or not they had death wishes or not, the Boston P.D. so totally deserved to die. He felt like a kid, tugging on his dad's sleeve, begging him, "PLEASE DADDY! Give me a gun with one clip. I won't miss." 

John Winchester would have back handed Dean for the mere thought of killing a human. _Guess that's one good thing about him not being here_, he considered melodramatically. He could blast the crap out of all these bastards, then get his ass back to saving Sammy.

"So, let's just go through this one more time," one of the police officers urged him, his words almost unintelligible thanks to the heavy Bostonian accent he possessed. Dean rolled his eyes at the prompt. If the man had requested a recap once, he'd done it a million times. "You telling me that all you're doing out here is hiking?"

"Hell yeah officer," Dean said with a nod, staring hard at the officer. _I'm going to wring your frigging throat_, he threatened mentally. _I'm going to pound your face in and use the rest of you for target practise._

"And the magnums are for...?"

Of course. Save the difficult questions for last. Luckily, Dean was the master of deception, or at least evasive maneuvers. "Protection," he replied incredulously, twisting his face as if to say, "What else would they be for?"

The officer nodded, clearly confused and yet unwilling to dig any deeper for answers. Dean's answers were a whole new level of candid, one the officer didn't seem all that comfortable with. He scratched his head, eyes drifting between the cluster of trees and Dean as if he wasn't sure which was more cause for alarm - a crazy teenager with some unlicensed firearms or a crazy bunch of trees that had he and his men lost for the past few hours.

The interrogation was about to continue despite the officer's obvious weariness with their discussion, but they were interrupted by a loud explosion from inside the thicket. The ground shook, nearly knocking them all to the ground in the process. Dean felt his impatience turn to rage in a very instant, no longer channelled directly at Boston's boys-in-blue. No, this time he was seriously pissed at the Withers woman as his mind started creating various 'Worst Case Scenarios', each one resulting in the death of his baby brother. _So help me_, he grit his teeth and tightened his hands into fists. _You hurt him and so help me..._

"SAM?" he shouted, forsaking any sort of cover he might have made with the Boston P.D. He ignored the officer's protests and warnings for him not to go anywhere. Dean had better shit to do, more important places to be than stating and restating half-truths and whole lies to the cops. Regardless of how many bullets they were threatening to shoot into him, he had to get to Sam. And by the looks of it, Sam was inside those trees. _Then that's where I'm headed_, he decided, and dove right in.

"HEY!" the officer shouted, but Dean wasn't paying attention anymore. He pulled the duffel into the thicket with him and just started moving.

"Hang on Sammy," he murmurred. "Hang on..."

* * *

Andrea Withers waltzed through the chaos she created with a satisfied grin on her face. The house her father had built lay in ruins all around her, the roof having collapsed almost completely while the walls teetered precariously, one slab on top of the other, slashed in half by her finely tuned psionic abilities. _Mother always said I was a handful_, she thought to herself, glancing briefly towards her right. Beneath the heavily knotted roots were the shallow graves of her parents, graves she had dug and hidden from human eye with the forest that obeyed only her will. The memory of her parents' death made her smile warmly, a smile that only got wider as she drew closer to the Winchester boy. He and the Sullivan girl lay not far from the front door, each one struggling for enough coherent thought to move again after having the roof collapse upon them. With their recent collection of injuries, such a feat was not easily mastered. Adding the Sullivan girl's recent telekinetic outburst, she imagined - no, knew - they were hers. 

Pinching her fingers together on her right hand, she snatched the Sullivan girl's throat and forced her back against the wall. "There will be no more of that," she snapped, tightening her telekinetic hold until James had all but passed out. "Try it again and I don't care what your future is. I'll pry your bone out through your flesh and crush your heart with my bare hands."

The Winchester boy coughed, drawing himself into a ball instinctively. She was just barely within five feet of him and already she was bombarded by thoughts, memories, images, visions. The psychic intoxication was disarming, enough to even hold her back for a moment or two. It wasn't that she didn't see it coming. She had sensed his power ever since he and his brother arrived, feeling it tickle the edges of her senses playfully before overtaking her mind entirely.

For the first time in her life, she allowed it to, basking in the immature, feebleness of an untrained mind with a childlike zeal. Sam Winchester's gifts were plentiful but useless in their dormant states. Only the prcognative abilities had fully awakened, leaving her at the mercy of the boy's migraines. She blamed the middle-aged telepath (Missouri, was it?) for not teaching him how to control his powers sooner. No doubt the father was to thank for that as well, though, she was uncertain whether that conclusion was the result of her own emotions or the ones she had absorbed during her temporary merge with Samuel. The thought of John Winchester made her internal organs tighten as if wrapped in drying raw hide. Life itself was being squeezed out from inside her, draining like water from a sponge. Sam's hatred for his father was pure, uncomplicated. It burned like an eternal flame within his heart, no matter how much he blamed himself for John's current condition.

"You're so angry, Samuel," she knelt down next to him, her knees popping as she did so. "No wonder he wants you so badly."

She reached towards him, drawing upon her powers again to lift his head from the ground. Sam grit his teeth, fighting her off as best he could. Physically, he could best her, but his mental attempts to block her out or toss her backward (a notion she found laughable, if not thoroughly impossible) were utter failures. He practically handed her his memories on a silver platter, gave her the power to roam freely through his most intimate recollections: his mother's death, his father's madness, his arrival at Stanford, meeting Jessica, making love for the first time in that tiny apartment they shared. The ecstasy filled her from head to toe and sent shiver up and down her spine.

"Women..." she scoffed, shooting an irritated glance in the Sullivan girl's direction. That stone cold expression she had entered the forest with was back on her face, returning with a vengeance in the face of her possible demise. Andrea looked back to Sam, the sight of a female sickening her to the core.

_Do not trust them_, she warned telepathically. _Their deepest wish is to deceive you, to manipulate you, to use you, and you mustn't let them. Follow the serpent's path to the flower it hides beneath and graciously accept whatever duties they request you complete. Become one with your darkness, Samuel Winchester. Only then will you find the light. _

"My light..." she finished, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyelids fluttered, stubbornly refusing to give into unconsciousness though she could feel his attention waver. The concussion was running its course, muddling his already confused thoughts into a mess she no longer cared to sort through. Taking his face in her hands, she traced her fingernails over his eyelids.

_I will give you the means to destroy him,_ she promised. _But you must allow me to._

A loud pounding on the door allerted Sam's senses, especially when he heard his name being called from behind it. "SAM?" Dean shouted, frantically pounding on the door. Andrea held it closed, waiting as patiently as she could for Sam to either fight her further or concede.

He stared hard into her eyes, blocking her out with whatever strength he had left. The blues of her irises softened suddenly, no longer driven by such blind hatred. He listened to her voice chant in his mind several more times, his heart aching at her words.

_I will give you the means to destroy him._

Him. The pronoun that changed everything. 'Him' was the thing that killed his mom, Jess, and countless other women before, after, and between the two. He was the start of the crusade and the end of it, the only thing that mattered anymore. And she was going to give him the power to destroy him once and for all.

"SAMMY!" his brother shouted again, awakening Sam from his reverie. The younger Winchester held Andrea's gaze a moment longer, torn between the two extremes of his soul. The idealist side was desperate for her assistance, while the level-headed Winchester side warned him against it.

"SAM?"

_Let me in, Sam..._

"SAMMY ANSWER ME!"

_Let me in..._

"SAM!"

_Let me in..._

* * *

Dean threw his shoulder into the door of the old house again, mumbling obscenities at the decrepit building, silently hoping that it would endure his attack long enough for him to rescue his brother. "Open up, bitch..." he cursed. "OPEN UP!" 

The door gave way beneath his body, throwing him head first into the partially destroyed home. He skidded to a halt in the broken remains of the foyer, feet sliding over the rubble that crumbled down from the roof. His eyes scanned the area frantically, searching desperately for any sign of his brother.

Within seconds, he found it. Sam was lying on the floor a couple feet from where Dean now stood, completely unresponsive to the ministrations of some crazy chick the older Winchester had never seen before. She was too young to be Andrea Withers, something he was thankful for, but too old to be the little girl Sam had seen in his vision.

Fuelled by his adrenaline, he rushed forward to his brother's side, unconsciously pushing the young woman out of his way in the process. Stubbornly, she held her own ground, shooting him an indignant look, one he really didn't appreciate given the gravity of the situation.

"Who the hell are you?" she demanded.

Dean didn't answer. This wasn't the time to get into a pissing contest with someone. He took his brother's head in his hands, patting Sam's cheeks softly as he did so to rouse him. "Sam?" he asked. "Sammy?"

His heart sank when he noticed the heavy bruising around his brother's eyes. No matter how much he tried to ignore it, the sight of his brother injured ate him alive. His mind was no longer playing through the worst case scenarios. Oh no. He was picturing all the horrors he would enact on Andrea Withers.

Sam jerked back suddenly, nearly going through the floor if not for Dean's hands on his face. The older Winchester's grip was firm and unyielding, holding him steady in his obviously shaken state. Fear still gripped him, lingering from his recent experience with Andrea Withers. But Dean's hands on his face, no matter how foreign the sensation was, soothed his terror away, allowing him to relax into the grip. His body sagged, lifeless and limp, into his brother's hands.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

I am so sorry this chapter took so long to post. It wasn't the writer's block, although if I could write original fiction _at all_ right now it would be a miracle. No, this time the delays are to blame on a force much more sinister, one known only as work. Ah yes, seating and cleaning tables takes up most of my time now (weeps). At least I have _Supernatural _and _House_ reruns to get me through. And the release date of _V for Vendetta_ is so close now I can practically feel the special edition DVD in my hands. Alas, the _Supernatural _release is still over a month away.

Review responses have been officially moved to my profile for this chapter, thanks to a warning from **_Lisette_**. While I completely disagree with the policy, I don't want anyone to report me and have my story deleted. From now on, review responses will be done through this crazy system on Fanfiction, or posted on my profile. Sorry for the inconvenience!


	21. Winchesters, Water, and Wood

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Warner Brothers and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twenty: Winchester, Water, and Wood

Sam always knew how to push buttons. He was ready and willing to push John Winchester's whenever he got the chance, and was equally eager to push his brother's when and if the occassion called for it. But the thing Dean never understood was how easily Sam could push girls', most often when he wasn't even trying. God, the kid was passed out cold on the floor and he was still doing it, working that natural 'little-lost-puppy-charm' on the only female within doting distance. The woman had barely given Dean a second glance since Sam had lost the battle with consciousness. _And I am so hotter than Sam_, he insisted mentally, as she inspected his baby brother with the air of a fully trained physician.

He was quick to discover that the 'she' he was staring at was James Sullivan. He recognized her nose and brow structure as those of Robert Sullivan's. But while Robert was a gaunt, angular gentleman, James was all curves. From her hourglass figure to the full, roundness of her thighs, she was a wavy young woman, water to Robert's wood. They had only been in each other's presence for thirty seconds, and Dean knew she was a wild child. She permeated an air of adolescent indignance, warding off anyone who dared question her. Despite all this, she still held her own under pressure, displaying a strange sort of maturity when faced with the unconscious Winchester.

"He's got a concussion," she said, lifting one of Sam's hands in hers. Dean's eyes narrowed menacingly with regards to the action, not particularly fond of anyone except him handling his brother at the time. Her gloved fingers moved quickly over Sam's wrist, searching for a pulse. The older Winchester was about to comment on how flawed her mentality was, if she actually expected to find a pulse while wearing gloves, but she cut him off. "Pulse is weak and thready. You wouldn't happen to have a first aid kit in that duffel of yours, would you?"

Dean was dumbfounded by her bluntness. This girl couldn't be more than nineteen, and here she was, playing a well-researched game of doctor on his unconscious baby brother. "Come again?" he asked, brow cocked in a confused fashion.

She matched his expression. "A first aid kit? Bandages, Tylenol, Polysporin...stuff that makes the 'owies' go away?"

"Pick a better time to be a smart ass, kitten," Dean snapped. If she wanted to scratch, he was damn well gonna scratch back.

"Whatever you say, sunshine," she replied.

He stopped. Did she just call him sunshine? Shooting her a nasty look, he received an immediate explanation during her examination of Sam's ankle. "You wanna call me nicknames you're going to get them right back."

"You think this is some kind of a game, princess?"

"It can be if you make it one, sweetheart," she finally shot him a look, patience wearing thin. Neither of them were in the mood for an argument, but both were ready and willing to unleash a verbal assault on one another if need be. Dean knew he could have killed her, physically and verbally, with only minor retalliation, but he didn't have time for any pithy comebacks right now.

"Look, you wanna be a bitch, be a bitch, but I swear to God, do it one more time to me and I'll rip your fucking throat out."

His eyes left no room for argument, no matter what comebacks were being formulated in that pretty little head of hers. The browns of her irises were smoldering, and Dean could feel the heat of her anger race over his skin. The woman pursed her lips into a thin line, holding back any obscenities that might turn his threat into a reality. On any other day, at any other time, she might have let loose, turned their little argument into a fist fight, but not that day. Instead, she settled on a silent nod and went back to inspecting Sam's ankle. "Now where the hell did that Withers' bitch go?"

James shook her head and shrugged, stuck in a rut because she had lost the argument. Ignoring her pout, he did a quick search of the now destroyed house, eyes narrowing when he couldn't find her. He _really_ wanted to shoot someone right now, and, as irritating as James had been, killing Andrea Withers was the only thing that would satisfy his murderous lust. He didn't want to wait for that bloody satisfaction, especially not after what she'd done to Sam, but he didn't have any other choice, a thought that only made him more angry.

_This isn't the time, Dean_, John Winchester commanded, bringing the thoughts to a halt. _Take care of your brother. _

Dean set Sam's head back on the floor and started shaking him gently, taking to heart her diagnosis of a concussion. "Wake up, Sam."

The younger Winchester definitely wasn't looking too good, which was saying a lot. Appearing sleep deprived and malnourished was the norm for Sam, and any extreme deviations from that were cause for some alarm. He was white as a sheet, causing the dark circles around his eyes to stand out, each one swollen and bruised from an injury Dean had never seen before and never wanted to see again, especially not on his brother. A large lump was developing just beside his temple while blood coated his ankle, soaking through his sock and pant leg completely. _Jesus_, he thought. _Sweet Jesus..._

"What the...?"

He looked up from his brother's face to James again. She had untied the strip of fabric Sam was using as a bandage and pulled down his sock. Dragging her fingers through the thick layer of coagulated gore coating his skin, she shook her head suddenly.

"What?"

"There's nothing there," she said. Her eyes narrowed as her own words sunk in. "There's nothing there?" she poked at his ankle again, unable to comprehend what was happening. Even in the low light of Andrea Withers' basement, she had seen the skin on his leg. It hung loosely from the bone like shredded cheese. When everything was said and done, he could barely walk on it without losing his balance, and had left a trail of blood all the way up the basement stairs into the hall. "This...this isn't possible."

Dean wished he had a dime for everytime someone said that. _I'd be a fucking millionaire_, he thought wistfully. James didn't seem to think the statement was so funny. She was on the verge of having a stroke trying to figure out how an injury had seemingly disappeared within a matter of minutes. Thankfully though, before he was left with the irritating task of comforting her mental distress, Sam started coughing. His lanky body jerked back and forth against the floor unsteadily, trembling in Dean's grasp as his body attempted to expel all of his internal organs.

"Sam?" Dean asked, patting his brother on the cheek. Sam recoiled in shock, hissing from whatever physical pain the touch may have caused or intensified. Gasping for breath, the younger Winchester wrapped his arms around his chest and shifted back over the floor, away from Dean.

"What's wrong with you?" the older brother asked, just as Sam started hyperventilating. Dean set a hand on his brother's cheek. "Sam?"

Again, the touch was rejected by a swift jerk of Sam's head. "No!" he shouted with a loud moan of agony. "No...ah, Jesus. Just...just don't...don't touch me!"

The younger man made a mad grab for his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose in a death grip. Dean recognized the symptoms. He knew them well. Sam was having a vision, and whatever it was, wasn't pretty. His face twisted into a mess of agony, eyes shut tight against the images playing out inside his mind, before going rigid, at the mercy of events that were to come.

Neither Dean nor James said anything, suspended in a hollow silence that ate the older Winchester alive. For once in his life, he found himself depending on someone else to break the emptiness, ask some clueless question about what the hell was happening, just so he wouldn't have to wallow in his soundless existence alone.

But James said nothing. She remained chillingly complacent despite it all, watching Sam with a very comfortable gaze, one Dean could only describe as familiarity. Whether that was a byproduct of medical training or psychic experience (a thought Dean found particularly irritating unto itself, but figured with his luck was probably more likely), he didn't know. All he knew was that those gorgeous doe eyes of hers, the ones giving him inexplicable but very delightful fantasies, were fixed on Sam calmly, making the hot rushes of blood zooming around his body turn cold as ice.

Sam snapped out of his reverie with a jolt, inhaling deeply as he did so. His hands shook, muscles spasming as he tried to get his body back under control. He didn't seem to be having much luck though. His bruised eyelids fluttered, lacking the energy to stay open for more than a few moments. Somehow, though, he managed to shift away from Dean and James, keeping his limbs as close to his body as possible, avoiding any unnecessary contact. Dean felt like he was looking in a mirror. After all, prohibiting all that touchy-feely crap was usually his job. Not Sam's.

"Sam?" Dean asked, placing a hand on his little brother's safely clothed shoulder. The action still elicited the same reaction though. Sam shifted even further away.

"Don't," Sam said, in a tone that left no room for argument. He lowered his hands to his sides and tried to reclaim some of his usual stoicism no matter how much pain he was still in. The vision left him near delirious from the pain, reaching out weakly for whatever fragments of reality he could get a hold of at the time. His skull was being split open, the skinripping as the bone underneathbroke into two equal halves, each side more painful than the other. He had felt it come on the second Dean's fingertips fell upon his face, each palm sending shots of liquid nitrogen into his veins, driving nails into his eye sockets and sinuses, before hurling him into one of the most frightening visions of his life. Not something that was going to happen, or even something that was happening. Something that happened. A moment that defined him so completely yet meant absolutely nothing to him. He had always felt detached from it, vestigial, useless, but it struck him now as it must have struck all present to it then. He felt weak in its wake, weak and powerless, at its mercy. He hated the vision, that was true, but somehow, hated himself even more for it.

The guilt ate him alive, but, as usual, he endured. He sat up, hugged himself, and shot a look to both concerned parties hanging off his every twitch. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he finally spoke, "Let's go."

No questions. No, "Hey Dean. Glad you finally showed up." Sammy was straight back to business without any excuses or exceptions. He winced as he got back to his feet, ignoring any offers of assistance from either Dean or James even though his whole body hurt like hell. His head throbbed in the wake of the vision, while the rest of him was aching and stiff, like he was coming off anesthetic without the usual high accompanying it. Waves of vertigo and nausea passed through him, making him groan a little more loudly than he would have liked too. He had already slaughtered his dignity in front of James. Now he was giving it a couple extra kicks in front of his brother. _This day can't get any worse_, he thought, suppressing his gag reflex with several swallows. He reached out instinctively, flailing blindly for some kind of support, and finally grabbed hold of something steady.

Imagine his surprise when that something grabbed back, gripping his forearm tightly to keep him from falling to the floor. The 'something' was wary of his bare hands, clutching the fabric of his coat and shirt instead of bare contact. "Whoa, hang on Sammy, hang on," he heard a voice assure him. "I've got you. I've got you."

He felt his legs give out from under him again.

_This sucks_.

* * *

Dean groaned under his brother's weight. _Jesus, Sammy_, he thought to himself. For someone so thin, he certainly wasn't a light weight. "Ah fuck," he cursed, staggering under the sudden impact. He readjusted his grip on his little brother, slinging one of Sam's arms over his shoulders lest he suffer an embarrassing reunion with the floor. There was no way they were going to make it through a crawlspace of trees like this, but at the moment, Dean didn't see any other choice. He didn't really want to stick around the Withers' place any longer than he had to, pleasant as Andrea's hospitality had been thus far. 

Without invitation, James approached the two, not so much offering help as she was enforcing it. Grabbing hold of Sam's other arm, she followed Dean's lead, drawing the limb over her small shoulders and easing some of the younger Winchester's weight off his brother's back.

"I've got him," Dean assured her.

"Whatever," she rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, you're damn right 'whatever'," he snapped back, issuing yet another eye-roll. Under the circumstances, it was the best comeback he had, Sam's weight having drained any good retorts out of him. Luckily, James wasn't in the mood to butt heads with him anymore, and did her part to maneuver Sam towards the door. Even between the two of them, Sam's legs were still dragging lifelessly across the floor.

"Is he your boyfriend?" she asked with a grunt, heaving Sam forward another step.

It took all of Dean's will power not to stop dead in his tracks. "What?"

"Is he your boyfriend?"

"Do I look like a fag to you?" he demanded, shocked that she would insinuate such a thing at a time like this. If she was looking for a distraction, she certainly found one.

"This is Massachusettes," she snapped indignantly. "We have a higher homosexual population than San Francisco."

Dean cocked his head, considering her argument. After the laws against homosexual marriages had been lifted, Massachusettes had become the gay and lesbian capital of the United States. _But still_, he thought with a twisted expression, _me and Sam...boyfriends!_ At any normal time, he would have milked the experience for all it was worth. But with Sam down for the count, he was without an audience, and wasn't in the mood for any type of homoeroticism at the moment, falsified or not.

"He's my brother," he admitted curtly. A short, sweet, Dean Winchester type of response that satisfied her curiosity and maintained his reputation.

"You guys don't look like brothers," she replied. _Case in point: HEIGHT!_ Though the statement went unspoken, it was implied by another well placed groan as she helped drag the younger Winchester - who was more or less dead weight at the current time.

"Yeah, well, I'm adopted and he had a sex change," Dean replied, sounding completely serious.

James just _looked_ at him. There wasn't anything to say to that.

He smirked, shooting a glance over to his unconscious brother. _Game, set, and match Sammy. Dean: 1. Hot-Sullivan-Chick: 0._

* * *

Five minutes after meeting her, and Dean wanted to punch her lights out. But suddenly, Dean wanted to know more about James. A lot more. Her dreams, hopes, aspirations, what kind of lingerie she wore...the usual. Her casually clothed exterior hid a extraordinarily talented interior, one that could bend and contort into positions that would put most dancers to shame. 

After losing another round of his new favourite game, "Wake Sammy Up," it was silently determined that they should just get on with escaping, even if it meant dragging the younger Winchester through a hoard of potentially homicidal trees. _You're lucky I love you, Sammy_, he thought, lowering his senseless baby brother to the ground. This wasn't going to be easy.

"You want to drag him through that?"

"Unless you have a stretcher or a chain saw hidden in those jeans, yeah, we're dragging him," Dean said, keeping a hand firmly on Sam's shoulder. "It's only about fifteen feet straight through. Ya hear that Sammy? You're halfway through just laying there." _Stupid tall bastard._ "Ladies first."

He thought she would protest, give one of her catty responses, one that could let him unload a little pent up frustration on her. But James said nothing. She shot him another dirty look and lowered herself under the branches.

The curve in her spine was what caught Dean's attention. Like a cat, her backbone arched into a perfect wave, starting low on her neck before sweeping upwards through her shoulderblades. She was completely still, poised, able to hold herself in the awkward position for an eternity before leaning under the vegetation and getting into the crawlspace. Once under, she turned, hands pinioned to the ground as her legs maneuvered themselves through the tree trunks, over the knots, like she was just dancing. Dean felt like he was just watching a spy thriller, what with her in black gloves, dark top, and loose jeans.

She reached for Sam's shoulders, lifting him several inches from the knotted roots and pulling him towards her, wary of his head the whole time. This wasn't exactly something they taught in medical school, not without a stretcher of some kind, but she managed, taking Sam's head onto her lap like she was cradling a baby. Biting down on her bottom lip, she wrapped her arms around Sam's shoulders and dragged him backward another three feet.

"Don't say I never do anything for you Sammy," Dean said, transfixed by the pseudo-sexual imagery being presented to him. He grabbed his brother by the ankles and started after her.

"What are you guys doing out here anyways," she asked, trying to distract herself from the increasingly difficult task of dragging the younger Winchester.

"Does hiking always warrant an interrogation in this state?" Dean pushed Sam towards her, bending his brother's long legs to shorten the distance between them and freedom.

"It does when the forest is home to a homicidal maniac."

"Ah, Andrea's not so bad. Bit rough around the edges but seriously, the woman has a heart of gold."

James yanked Sam back again, planting her feet firmly against the rought surface of the tree roots before kicking off fiercely in the opposite direction. The technique worked, covering greater distance. "Why are you really out here?" she asked, giving a small 'ow' when her mess of hair caught on the branches just above her head.

The procession came to a halt as she worked to detangle her locks from the gangly twigs that had taken hold of them. Andrea didn't seem to be in a fighting mood anymore. The limbs remained steady, no matter how rough James' fingers were with them.

"Why does it matter?" he hated 'Twenty Questions'. Always had, always would. If his only defense tactic was answering every question with another one, it would do.

"Well," she finally freed herself and resumed pulling. "You're not from Boston. Hell, you're not even from the East Coast. Your accent's southern - not fully developed, so probably North Texas, Oklahoma, Kansas..." the last state was added flippantly, placed purposefully to strike a nerve. What she lacked in physical similarities with her father was compensated for in her powers of deduction, obviously. "You're dressed like Hell's Angel rejects, have a magnum in your pocket, and absolutely no provisions or first aid equipment to speak of. So you if you're not hiking, what are you doing?"

Dean shrugged. "I could ask you the same question."

"I'm looking for someone," she replied simply.

"You got a thing for homicidal maniacs too?"

He got a smile out of that one. It was brief and fleeting, something he only caught because he looked up at exactly the right moment, but it had been there.

"No," she replied. "My sister. She went missing a few days ago."

"Sorry," he said, not really sounding like he meant it. "So what makes you think she's out here?"

She paused, mounting a slight incline in the tree roots, but Dean sensed that there was more accounting for her hesitation than just their terrain. "I don't know. Andrea's not exactly a saint in the eyes of the law."

_Tell me about it_, he thought, sending another worried look to Sam's pallid face again.

"Doesn't matter anyways," she exhaled heavily, lifting Sam up and over the jagged incline. "The cops haven't come up with anything. They're too busy following my dad's orders."

"Your dad doesn't think Withers' was involved?" Dean didn't normally like asking questions he already knew the answer too, but in this case, it was necessary. James was talking, being borderline pleasant. No more snide remarks, name calling, or immature mimicking. From her tone, he knew she was pissed at her father, and Dean knew that when people, particularly women, were upset, all they wanted to do was talk. He had just had to get her started, stoke those flames he could see burning in her eyes. If she was venting about her father, she was venting about he sister, and she wasn't asking stupid questions about why they were here.

"My dad doesn't believe Andrea was involved, not for a second. There's no motive, aside for...the obvious." _If a complete psychotic break is 'obvious'_, Dean thought, but said nothing. "The cops are going through his old case files, trying to find disgruntled clients or defendants he might have pissed off, but nothing's coming up."

"What about forensics?" he asked. She was on a fucking roll.

"Nothing. No fingerprints, no fibers, no hairs...nothing. You could build computers in Anne's room before and after she disappeared," she paused a moment to catch her breath, folding herself into a rather awkward position between the trees. Dean was transfixed by the elegant lines she formed with her body, the graceful extension of her toned thighs and calves. He couldn't help but stare with the way she was bending, every curve in her watery body making him salivate hungrily. _Next time I'm the one who gets rescued,_ he told his brother mentally, and imagined Sam shooting him a dirty look for the statement.

Moving forward through the trees, Dean watched his brother for any sign of life. _Come on, Sammy_, he begged silently, willing his baby brother to wake up. The look on Sam's face if he came to right now would be hilarious, worth every second of agony he was putting Dean through. Being a modest man at heart, waking to find himself pressed flat against James' chest would give Sam a death wish worth fulfilling.

_Serves you right,_ Dean thought, _making me worry. Jesus, Sam, I'm gonna be gray before I'm thirty, and it'll be all your fault._

* * *

**Author's Notes**

It took me a little more than a week but I did it: I devoted almost an entire chapter to Dean! Sam had a couple of paragraphs, but I was determined to keep the primary focus on the older Winchester. Not a lot of angst, unfortunately, but I was in a bit of a hurry to get them the hell out of the Withers' house and back on track! They've only got three days to find this demon of theirs, so a push in the right direction couldn't hurt.

Uh oh...Andrea Withers did something freaky to Sam. What, you ask? Well, I guess you're just going to have to read and find out.

Dean's a man who enjoys distractions, especially when he's pissed. I hope the prospect of him being attracted to James even with his brother passed out wasn't too hard for you to swallow.

Review responses are in my profile. Hopefully, they'll be posted around the same time as this chapter. Sorry, but I'm not particularly fond of the new systems. Old habits die hard, and I always enjoy reading review responses when they're clumped together. It's having a huge conversation with a lot of people at once! How can I refuse?


	22. Schizophrenia

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter Twenty-One: Schizophrenia

Sam felt...strange. Was that the right word? He wasn't particularly sure at the moment, too caught up with the white noise filling his skull to worry about his mental vocabulary. Voices fluttered all around him in constant conversation amongst themselves, broken and fractured thoughts that made the blood in his temples pound even harder. Having only recently become aware of his body, his movements towards his skull were clumsy and disoriented. Worse yet, covering his ears didn't help.

It only made the sound worse.

He jerked backward, hands shaking as they drifted back around his waist protectively. The skin on his cheeks was on fire, burning from the close contact with his palms, sending shock waves of pain rattling through his system as the voices grew louder and louder in his mind.

"Sam?" one voice stood out amongst the rest, bringing the other conversations to a crashing halt. The silence that followed was deafening and pervasive, chewing away at his insides with the ferocity of a flesh eating disease. Whoever was addressing him noticed and ran a comforting hand down his arm to settle him. "Easy Sammy, easy..."

The younger Winchester groaned. "I's Sam," he mumbled, his tongue thick and clumsy inside his mouth, unable to curve around sharp sounds like 't'.

"Toh-may-toe, toh-mah-toe, college boy. Either way its time to wake up."

"Ugh, five more minutes, Dean," he muttered, snuggling deeper into the pillow under his head.

"Awww...come on Sammy. There's some really cute paramedics here who want to get a good look at those big, brown eyes of yours."

"I'm fine," he said instinctively.

"Mind if I be the judge of that?" a woman asked, presumably the paramedic who was on duty. Sam's brow furrowed at the notion. What the hell was an EMT doing in their motel room?

He opened his eyes and sat up, surprised to find that he was not in the motel at all, but rather, lying on the ground in the middle of the Massachusettes forest. A coat (Dean's, he knew that smell anywhere) had been balled up as a makeshift pillow in lieu of the paramedics' ETA. _God, how long was I out?_ he wondered, eyeing his surroundings wearily. Police officers and medical personnell were swarming through the trees, making the already claustrophobic area even tighter.

Taking advantage of his stillness, the paramedic pounced, reaching over with a gloved hand to inspect the size of his pupils. Sam recoiled, nearly barrelling into a nearby tree at the prospect of being touched, but was caught mid-movement and restrained by a firm hand on his shoulder. "Hold on there," the paramedic said, pulling a penlight out of her pocket. "I just want a look at your eyes."

"Told yah," Dean said from the sidelines in his 'I'm-the-big-brother-so-I'm-always-right sort of tone. Even still, he eyed the paramedic like a hawk, making sure that she didn't even twitch without him knowing about it. Andrea Withers had ruined his track record as the Winchester guard dog, and he was working overtime to ensure that Sam remain uninjured by her ministrations.

Sam didn't appreciate her touching him. His eyes moved between the paramedic and Dean, begging one of them to stop the action before his hypersensitivity returned. The penlight strobed over his eye, causing his pupil to dilate apparently, since the EMT was starting to look more optimistic.

"You feeling nauseous at all, Sam? Dizzy?"

_Ugh...yes..._

"No," he shook his head, discovering that it was a bad idea a second later. When his brain started shifting in his skull, the voices came back, echoing together. He groaned louder this time and backed out of the EMT's vice-like grip.

"Well, your pupil reactivity is normal. That lump on your head doesn't look too promising though. I think we should take you in to see a doctor," she added right at the very end, the crowning glory of Sam's day.

"No," he said, avoiding a head shake this time. "I'm just gonna go."

"I'll need you to sign an AMA."

"Whatever," Sam replied with a grimace. He would do back flips if it meant making her go away.

She nodded and retreated quickly, heading back to the ambulance to get the appropriate forms. In the meantime, Sam turned his sights on Dean.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, swallowing hard against the bile rising in his throat.

"You mean before or after your little panic attack in Andrea Withers' front hall?" Dean shrugged. "'Cuz I only know one half of the story and it's probably better if you don't know."

Sam's skin was crawling, too tight for his bones. He shivered uncomfortably. "I don't remember much. Just...stuff..."

"Stuff," the older Winchester said with a skeptical nod. "That bitch did one hell of a number to your head, dude. I'm surprised you remember anything at all."

"Is James okay?"

Dean rolled his eyes. Selfless Sammy. The only kid Dean knew who had absolutely no concept of self-worth, least of all on a hunt. "Oh she's more than okay, bro," he chided, trying to lighten the mood. "She had me as her knight in shining armour."

"Ha ha," Sam hugged himself, trying to hide the muscle spasms wrecking his body. The sounds in his head fluctuated, loud and soft, the volume controls of his brain controlled by some kind of foreign presence he couldn't feel so much as sense. _What the hell did she do to me?_ he pondered in silence, searching his memories for some kind of clue. All he found were small segments of his past, strung together by periods of fog as he drifted carelessly from one scene to the next. Pain was the most prominent feature in each. Beyond that there was James' informal diagnosis and tired protests, not to mention Andrea Withers' serpentine features haunting his every step.

Out of the blue, it struck him, silencing the voices just as Dean's voice had. Three words echoed in his brain, three words he immediately reiterated to his brother.

"She's a telekinetic," he said, the realization dawning upon him as suddenly as it did his brother. "Dean, James is a telekinetic. I saw her throw Andrea back with her mind."

"You sure?"

He nodded in response.

Dean looked over his shoulder towards another figure slumped under a tree. The paramedics had given her a once over and determined she was physically fit aside for a few bumps and scrapes. Wrapped up in a blue, hospital issue blanket, James stared off into the forest sadly, arms draped loosely over her knees. Cocking a brow, he narrowed his eyes on the gloves covering her from elbows to fingertips. At first, he thought they were a fashion statement. The emo style was totally 'in' right now. Why should Boston's favourite Princess be immune? But if Sam was right, as he so often was, then maybe the gloves acted as a barrier, holding back whatever psychic powers she kept hidden.

"So Sullivan's daughter is a spoon bender," he nodded approvingly.

"She's not just a spoon bender," Sam shook his head, utterly defeated at the prospect. "She threw Andrea Withers into the wall so hard it broke under the weight."

"Yeah, because the Withers' house is a fucking fortress," Dean argued sarcastically, unable to believe that Sam truly felt guilty about the injuries inflicted upon his captor. While he knew from experience that telekinesis took an exceptional degree of control, and the ability to 'throw' a human took even more, the last thing his brother needed was another weight on his shoulders. Least of all for a murdering bitch like Andrea Withers.

"It's not just that, Dean," the younger Winchester reasoned. "I felt her draw in her power just before the blow. I mean, with Max, it just happened. But with her...I could feel it. I could sense it."

"Yeah, I bet you felt something," Dean said, shooting another look at James. "I knew you weren't totally unconscious for that little romp in the trees."

Sam didn't want to know. He tilted his head, face tightened. "Be serious."

"I'm always serious," his brother growled, searching the forest. Sam rolled his eyes, his own quiet way of saying, "Yeah right." Dean was hardly ever serious, unless the situation was truly dire. The fact that he was being sarcastic was a small comfort all things considered. It didn't remedy Sam current condition, nor his growing guilty conscience, but it did lift his focus from such things, even for just a little while. He needed the distraction. Without it, he sank back into his usual depression, understanding only the grief that came with the death he seemed to be surrounded with.

He lifted his gaze to James again, taking a good long look at her. The pieces of her puzzle were slowly coming together, building a picture Sam wasn't sure he wanted to be a part of. Still, his guilt over Max's death forced him to watch her, pondering the mysteries she hid under her dark clothes and pale flesh. Everyone he met with psychic abilities was more advanced than he felt he would ever be, even with Missouri's confident assurances that he would improve. Max could cock pistols and have knives hover just millimeters from the human eye. James could throw humans clear across the room and still have the strength to make for the door afterwards. And he...well, he could spend many sleepless nights analyzing visions and nightmares while his telekinesis came and went like a hotel guest, checking in and checking out as it pleased. What did they have that they didn't? Why were their abilities so much more advanced than his own?

The world lurched forward when he stood up, sending him into a daze as he tried to regain his balance. "Oh yeah, great idea college boy," Dean said, catching him by the shoulders when he started to fall again. "I swear, you puke on my shoes, I'll balance out those bumps on your head."

Sam nodded, trembling the whole time. After taking a minute to recover slightly, he staggered past Dean, towards James, looking drunk the whole way.

She barely reacted to his presence, only looking up with his lengthily shadow covered her completely. "You know standing up with a concussion is probably not the best idea, right?"

"What do you know about the Order?"

The question came out of his mouth so quickly he didn't even realize he was speaking until after he had finished. It had been impulsive, almost unconscious, fuelled by the strange visions he had experienced while in the company of Andrea.

James expression of surprise matched his own. She wasn't a helpless victim of a madwoman any longer. Sam was treading on hostile ground now, and by the look on James' face, she didn't appreciate the nature of the conversation he was starting.

"What?" she asked, getting to her feet.

"The Order," he repeated himself. "What do you know about it?"

She glanced over her shoulder, unsure if he was speaking directly to her or some invisible figure standing nearbly. James was clearly wishing it was the latter, her face a mixture of fear, apprehension and discomfort; the usual reaction for a Winchester when one was inquiring about the supernatural.

"I...I don't know what you're talking about," she replied, turning her sights back on him. "The Order?"

"Look, I know this sounds crazy," Sam said, receiving a single look from James that distinctly said, _YOU THINK!_ "But I need to know who and what they are."

Her bottom lip trembled, and she was twitching nervously under his searching gaze. Stepping towards him cautiously, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "How do you know about the Order?"

"Thought you didn't know anything," Dean interjected. His presence was met with a cold stare from James. "Sorry. Hushed conversations make me hot."

_Jackass_, Sam thought, hiding his smile. James didn't look so pleased, but continued.

"It's a..."

"JAMES MIRANDA!"

Both brothers glanced over either one of her shoulders, towards the source of the enraged voice approaching her from behind. James' body language said it all. One second, she was fit for the runway with her shoulders back and chin high. The next, she was sunken and dismayed, all because her father had showed up in the forest.

And he sounded pissed. The faint hints of a British accent Dean detected earlier were now extremely evident, making him sound even angrier. But it took an older brother to know better. Robert Sullivan was more angry at himself than James, enraged because he had already lost one daughter to the great, wide world, and didn't want to lose another.

"You want to tell me what you're doing out here?" he asked quickly, stopping short in front of her.

James clenched and unclenched her fists before whipping around to face him. "Not particularly, no."

"Don't talk back to your father," a woman snapped from behind Robert, waltzing through the forest like the Queen of England. Both Winchesters knew without being told that she was Erica Weaver, Robert's second wife and mother of Anne. She was of fair features - pale skin, dusty blonde hair, blue eyes - and appeared to be at least half Robert's age. She was a trophy wife in Dean's opinion, an idea that was only reinforced by her designer clothing, high heels, and expensive jewelry. The rock on her left hand nearly took her willowy frame straight to the ground. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, young lady."

"So nice of you to put on your mom apron this morning, Erica," James rolled her eyes. "Just for me, I assume?"

"Don't get cheeky with me, James," Erica snapped. "We'll talk about this in the car."

"Ooooo, cryptic," the younger Sullivan said cynically. "You've actually got me wishing I had let that Withers bitch kill me."

Erica's lips pursed into a thin line and her eyes burned. Luckily, Robert interrupted their little spat before it could continue.

"Walk," he ordered James, pointing in the direction of the car.

"Dad..." she pleaded. _How can you take her side?_

"Just walk," he said, without looking at her. _I don't want to disappoint either of you. Do as I say so I can feel some semblance of control._

She turned away, doing that defensive head-tilt Sam was so famous for. It was usually followed by an ungrateful remark of some kind, a pretentious comeback, an exclamation of, "NO ONE UNDERSTANDS ME!" (in so many words), and finally, someone would storm away with a promise to never speak to the other person again, a promise that was always broken for one reason or another. Dean had seen it too many times before and wished he could skip out on the family drama and get back to business. He wanted to know what the hell this Order was Sammy was talking about and get back to kicking demon ass.

Whatever answers he was trying to get from James would have to wait, though, as she finally gave into her father's wishes after several moments of inner debate. She glanced back at the Winchesters one last time before purposefully slamming into Erica's shoulder on her way back to her parents' vehicle.

Robert followed her in silence, not even trying to reason with her. It wouldn't do much good with James being in such a state.

"I'm terribly sorry," Erica told them, shaking her head apologetically. "She's been under a lot of stress lately. Midterms, med school...you know how it is."

"Actually I don't," Dean replied. Sam elbowed him in the side to keep him in check.

"She mentioned that her sister went missing," the younger Winchester said, trying to win over some degree of the Sullivans' trust. "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," she said with a small smile, sad eyes lowering towards the ground at the thought of her missing daughter. "It's been...hell, but we're managing."

"Yeah, I can see that," the older Winchester got a swift kick in the shin for that one. He glared at his baby brother, vowing to give Sam the beating of his life when the woman was out of sight. Dean didn't understand why his brother was being such a bitch anyways. Erica Weaver was pissing him off with her condescending tone and complete incompetance.

"Well, we really hope you find her alright," Sam said kindly.

Erica smiled again. "Thank you."

She retreated after her husband and step daughter.

Forsaking Sam's physical condition, Dean smacked him in the ribs. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"Why are you being such a prick?"

"Why'd you kick me?"

"Her daughter was just kidnapped, Dean. Can't you show just a little compassion?"

_No_, Dean wanted to say, but allowed the word to go unspoken. Why burst Sam's bubble? He cared about Anne Sullivan, really, he did. But parents like Erica Weaver just rubbed him the wrong way, and he didn't feel like pretending to be a gentleman anymore.

"What the hell is this Order shit you're talking about anyways, Sam? Some kind of hunting whack-a-mole?"

"I had a vision, okay? No big deal."

"Uh huh, cuz that sounded like no big deal," the older Winchester glared at his younger brother. "Come on dude. If this wasn't a big deal you wouldn't be giving that chick a stroke over it."

"It was something Andrea said," Sam explained as they walked through the forest, making their way towards the paramedic who was returning from her trek to the ambulance, clutching an AMA under her arm. "She called James 'the Order's Chosen', and told me that St. Mary's was at the heart of some kind of demonic war."

"The woman's a whack job, Sammy. Nothin' more," Dean stood around and waited for the AMA to come to him, along with that pleasant looking paramedic. "She said the same thing to the police thirty years ago when she murdered those girls."

"So you think it was all a lie?"

"Hell yeah," the older Winchester replied. "That woman is seriously disturbed, Sammy. Don't give yourself a case of Stockholm Syndrome just because she's lost touch with reality."

"Then how do you explain James' reaction? She obviously knew something."

"Dude, it's an all girls' school!" Dean reasoned. "All chicks do is talk. You said it yourself this morning. If they can't even get their facts straight about a serial killer, how in the hell are they gonna come to a consensus on a demonic conspiracy? Besides, we've only got three days to find out who the demon's coming after."

"No thanks to your fear of flying," Sam added, knowing that if they had gotten plane tickets instead, they would have had a lot more time to track down the demon. Plus he wanted to take a shot at Dean, lighten the uber-serious mood a little.

"You want me to tell the paramedic about your concussion?"

"She checked me out, Dean. I don't have a concussion."

"Yeah, well, you're gonna if you keep bringing that up."

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There were very few things in life that sucked more than police statements. Funny, because they just so happened to be the things the Winchesters did best. Giving shit stories to the boys in blue was as natural to them as firing a gun. John Winchester had given them almost telepathic abilities when it came to sharing stories, even with people they didn't know. Working under the assumption that James had little to no imagination, or was just a stickler for the truth, the boys stuck only to facts: Sam was taken when Dean wasn't looking (a plot point that made the older Winchester glower uncontrollably), he was subjected to some kind of torture he couldn't remember (resulting in the lump on his head and the bruises across his chest), while Dean scowered the forest for him. As for why they were in the forest in the first place? Well, that was easy. They were trying out their new magnums and didn't realize they were on private property, simple as that.

Their ignorance was forgiven thanks to a little intervention from the Sullivans. The family drama the boys had witnessed escalated into a shouting match between stepmother and daughter, causing enough of a distraction for both Winchesters' to give the cops the slip and get back to the car.

After several minutes of driving in complete silence, with Sam getting greener the whole time, Dean finally spoke.

"Dude," Dean lifted his eyes from the road, "If your gonna puke..."

"I'm not," Sam replied, trying his hardest to end the conversation. "Where the hell are you going anyways? The hospital's that way," he pointed in the direction they should be heading, but weren't. Why, Sam would never truly know, not with Dean in his overprotective older brother mode. Realizing what direction they were headed in, he added, "We're not going back to the motel."

"You're right. _We're_ not. You, on the other hand..."

"You can't take me back to the motel," Sam said.

"Funny thing about me being the driver and all," the older Winchester laughed. "I can take you wherever the hell I want to."

"You can't take me back to the motel, Dean," he snapped again. "Do you know how many records you're going to have to look through? How many birth certificates? You need me on this."

"You know how much more convincing you'd be if you didn't look so green? Damn it Sammy, I knew I shouldn't have let you sign that AMA."

"It's. Sam. And I can sign the damn AMA if I want to."

His brother shot him a poignant look. "What the fuck does that have to do with researching birth certificates?"

The younger Winchester returned his brother's stare. "You just said..."

"That I can take you wherever the hell I want to," the older Winchester interrupted. "I _thought_ about not letting you sign..."

Dean slammed on the brakes.

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**Author's Notes**

6 versions, two weeks, several Iced Cappucinos, and more than my fair share of Oreos later, and it's finally here! Chapter Twenty-One of _Last One Standing_! I realize that this is getting pretty ridiculous. I keep making promises that I can never keep and I feel absolutely terrible about it. I desperately wanted to post this last week, but found myself at a stand still when it came to writing. I kept revising the plot of this chapter, jumping back and forth between POV's until I found something comfortable. I had an AWESOME beginning written out for Dean, but couldn't work in the rest of the chapter properly with it. I may just post all my deleted/alternate scenes in an epilogue of some kind just for fun. Some of it is actually quite good, if I do say so myself.

Alright, there's a lot going on in this chapter (probably the reason I had so much trouble with it): Sammy's hearing voices, James knows more than she's letting on, and Dean's...well, he's just being Dean. Sorry, I had a lot of fun with him. 6 versions gave me plenty of reason to have _Supernatural _marathons till all hours of morning. I think my dad's getting a little ticked off with me. And the excuse, "I'm doing research for a story," is starting to wear thin. No matter, I'm having a ball despite all this time, and I hope everyone is as well.

I'm sorry once again that this is taking so long, and thank you so much for reviewing as often as you do! I love hearing from you guys, and you're such great sports about me being an unpredictable update-r. THANKS SO, SO MUCH!

Review responses are in my profile, as usual.


	23. Defense Mechanisms

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter Twenty-Two: Defense Mechanisms

For the first time he could remember, Dean Winchester had been rendered speechless. No words, no breath, no nothing. Just the stale air of the car hanging between he and his baby brother, completely unmoving with the shocked siblings seated on either side of it.

He managed to turn and look at Sam after taking a few minutes to get over the initial shock. _It can't be_, he told himself. _Sammy's just imagining things. Or maybe you were thinking out loud. He isn't telepathic!_

Dean swallowed the lump in his throat. "What am I thinking right now?"

Sammy rolled his eyes, exasperatedly. "You're an idiot."

He answered that with another jab to the ribs. "Seriously, what am I thinking?"

"Carmen Electra, naked," Sam added. Lord, for someone who hated sarcasm, he certainly used it a lot. Dean wanted to smack that overly complacent expression off his brother's face, but he resisted. Beating the crap out of Sammy would only make the kid more asocial than he already was.

"Sam: what am I thinking?"

The younger Winchester tried to control his anxieties, but it was a lost cause. It was hard to exert control over something when you felt beaten down by it, and psychic abilities weren't something Sam was equipped to deal with, not in his own life anyways. Most of the time, they were just a side note, a forgettable factoid in comparison to the other, more confusing aspects of his life. After all, who the hell ponders their own psychic abilities while they're having visions of a telekinetically gifted child killing their only brother?

He took a deep breath, feeling his body relax from his fatigue. It had been a long day already and they were just an hour past noon, leaving Dean with many more hours to pester him about his newfound power. It was probably better if they got this spat over and done with ASAP, Sam just wasn't sure how. He didn't know how he managed to read his brother's mind in the first place (if that was, indeed, what he had done), so how could he be expected to do it again?

"…not telepathic…I was thinking out loud…didn't realize it…he's not telepathic…not telepathic…not telepathic…"

Sam groaned loudly and covered his ears, trying to block out the sound of his brother's voice as it echoed inside his head.

"Oh fuck…" Dean said, by either mouth or mind, "God damn it, Sam, you're a fucking mind reader!"

"Just shut up!" Sam shouted, throwing his hands down from his head. He fumbled for the door handle, fingers trembling erratically from the recent psychic onslaught. Throwing the car door open, he stepped out onto the shoulder of the quiet highway, walking in the opposite direction to escape the constant barricade of human voices still filling his mind. The long streams of human voices were mind numbing, deafening, shutting him off from reality without any hope or chance of escape.

Dean leapt from his seat the second Sam left the vehicle, and nearly beat his brother to the punch if not for his damn seat belt. Cursing the strap rather than his stupidity, he walked after his kid brother quickly, trying to figure out if Sam was okay or not. There really wasn't any way of actually knowing, what with the younger Winchester's penchant for hiding things.

When he didn't stop walking, Dean called after him. "Sammy!" he didn't respond. "Sammy, hold up. Sam!"

Sam finally came to a halt, hand fixed on the bridge of his nose as pain lanced outward from his sinuses. He could only just hear his brother through the mess of noise inside his head, paying more attention to the sounds pranced from one side of his brain to the other merrily. "Ah Christ…shut up! JUST SHUT UP!"

"SAM!" Dean grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him steady. Sam was shaking under his hands and was only mildly aware that he was being touched at the moment. Usually, the Winchesters repelled any sort of contact with a quick, unexpected jerk. Now, Sam was almost at ease, a reaction that made Dean worry all the more. "Sam, look at me," he gave his brother a small shake. "Come on, dude, look at me. Just focus on me, Sammy. Focus on me."

For several moments, Sam did nothing. His pained expression made Dean's insides twist tightly. A large weight fell across his chest, crushing his heart beneath his ribs as his baby brother fought hard against whatever agony might be reaping havoc in his head. His knuckles were white as they gripped the bridge of his nose, tendons popping out against the bone. Tears were building at the edges of his eyes, threatening to destroy the stoic façade Sam tried - and failed - to maintain. Dean found himself clenching his brother's shoulders more and more tightly as the image burned itself into his skull, fueling the anger building within.

_I am gonna kill that bitch_, he told himself. _Oh, I am gonna fucking slaughter that bitch._

"Jesus, Dean," Sam said weakly, pealing open his eyes slowly, "You think **way** too loudly."

The older Winchester almost cracked a smile on that one. Almost. Deep down, he didn't find it all that funny. Fuck, here his brother was, freaking out on the side of the highway, forcing Dean to engage in one of those God damn touchy-feely moments he so desperately despised, and now Sammy had the gall to crack a joke about how loud he was thinking.

_Bastard_.

"What the hell is going on in that head of yours anyways?" Dean asked, not particularly sure he wanted the answer or not.

"I can here everything," Sam spat, rubbing his forehead. One of Dean's obscenities had struck his skull particularly hard that time, temporarily dulling the pain of the other, softer voices.

"Like…everything-everything?" the older Winchester pointed to his head, trying to make the universally comprehended sign for telepathy.

Sam nodded shakily, appearing calm for a moment, before the voices returned with a vengeance. "Yeah…JESUS! I can still hear the cops at the fucking house, Dean."

_Fuck_, the older Winchester thought, trying to hide his exasperation. It couldn't just be a concussion or hell, even a vision would be a blessing at this point. It just had to be telepathy. Better than that: telepathy with unlimited long distance minutes, tuning Sam into absolutely anything within listening range.

Turning away from his brother for a moment, Dean tried to figure out a quick solution to their newest problem. The situation felt vaguely ironic to him. Despite all his training in the supernatural, all the knowledge he had amassed over the years was completely useless. This wasn't a demon he could exorcise or a monster he could kill. This was his brother, his baby brother, the brother he swore to John Winchester, his dead mother, and God Himself that he would protect. It was fitting then, that he was stuck on the outside, helpless to do anything but watch Sam suffer in quiet agony.

His memory banks were devoid of any type of information on suppressing telepathic abilities. Screaming, "Shut up," obviously wasn't helping. Neither was the pinching, which Dean had noticed was becoming more frantic as Sam regarded him, pain stricken eyes searching for an answer they would never find. Dean was about as lost as his brother was, overloaded with the way the world was treating them both. _Why couldn't we just have one break?_ He asked in silence. _Why couldn't just one thing go our way?_

_Because you're Winchesters_, his inner critic chided, _because you're not like other families. Because your mother burned up on the ceiling of your brother's nursery. Because your father turned to hunting things instead of drinking. Because your brother was picked by some demon to assist in some unholy plan. Because you're a shitty older brother who should have done a better job at protecting him out there!_

"Dean…" Sam sighed, feeling like he was front-row center to Dean's little mental melt down. _Does he always think like this?_ "It wasn't your fault…"

"Just don't," Dean stopped him before the sentence could turn into a long winded conversation about (he shuddered) feelings. "You being able to hear me think about stuff doesn't give you the right to talk about it."

"I'm just saying…"

"You're not saying anything. You're walking back to the damn car is what you're doing."

"What the hell kind of good is that going to do me?" Sam demanded. "It's not like it makes the voices go away or anything."

"No, but it keeps you from poking around in here," the older hunter tapped a finger against his temple. "Besides, I need to make a phone call."

"A phone call? Who the hell are you going to phone Dean? I don't think there are any toll free psychics who know how to deal with this."

"Not a toll free one, but there is someone."

"Who?" Sam looked puzzled, the confusion distracting him from his new found telepathic powers.

"The only mind reader we happen to know, Sammy-boy," Dean hid a grimace. "Missouri."

Sam kept his distance from Dean while he was on the phone. No matter how accustomed he was to eavesdropping on his brother's conversation, he didn't have to be nearby to hear it any longer. His brother's mind emanated an all too informal play-by-play of his and Missouri's banter, making Sam's splitting headache even worse the longer Dean stayed on the phone.

He paced back and forth by the car for a while, trying to focus his attention on anything else except the god damn noise buzzing inside his skull. Missouri and Dean weren't helping much either. Jesus, and he thought Dean talked a lot in life. The older Winchester's head was a running monologue littered with vulgarities, and Missouri wasn't helping matters. Everything she said to Dean went into his head and into Sam's.

"How far away from the police officers are you?" she asked Dean quickly.

"Far enough for me to be calling you," Dean snapped. _Just give me some damn answers you omniscient, know-it-all, overbearing…_

"Can we lose the social commentary, Dean?" Sam interrupted him, giving him a brief peace from the constant onslaught of his brother's train of thought. He relished the momentary silence, wallowing the bliss of soundlessness, until Dean decided to interrupt it again.

"Listen to your brother, boy, cuz you are pushing all the wrong buttons right now," Missouri snapped coldly. Sam could feel her anger pulsate from the cellular phone Dean now held in his hands. Frightened by how close she felt, he turned his back on the conversation and sank down on the ground next to the car. He had run out of defense mechanisms, and decided that wallowing in self pity was just as good a reaction as any right about then.

Dean's ears shut off the second Sam disappeared from view. Keeping the phone pressed to his ear, he did a small dance along the side of the road, trying to get Sam back in his line of vision. The last thing he wanted was the poor kid to have a seizure or something and not know about it.

He managed to multitask in that moment, part of him hanging off of Missouri's every word, believing whole-heartedly that she would know what to do; the other part was focused entirely on Sam: his breathing, his body language, his behaviour. The younger Winchester lengthily body was crumpled up in a ball next to the car, legs curled up protectively around his head. Long, messy locks of brown hair hid Sam's face from view, but Dean imagined it wouldn't look much different from before, a thought that made his insides squirm. _Come on, Missouri,_ he turned from his brother to keep his desperation secret. _Just give me this one thing. I swear, I'll never talk back to you again. Just give me this **one thing**._

"Is he still having visions?" she asked, "Or is it just telepathy?"

The question made his erratic pacing come to an abrupt halt. Winchester luck sucked on the best of days, but surely telepathy trumped precognition and offered Sam a little bit of peace. Not that mind reading was the better of two evils or anything. The poor kid was still on his last legs. Still, why couldn't the order of the universe reign supreme and unleash psychic abilities on Sam one at a time?

His mind jumped back suddenly to Sam's little panic attack in the Withers' foyer. The memory made Dean's heart skip a beat from the sound of his brother's voice; the sound of his brother's anguish and terror forever branded in the back of the older Winchester's mind.

_"Don't touch me!"_

"Dean?" Missouri asked. "What is it?"

He didn't answer; only turned to look back at Sam, look of shock written all over his features. _He had a vision_, Dean deduced so quickly he scarcely realized he was thinking it. _I gave him a vision_.

"Dean Winchester, don't you think about giving me the silent treatment."

"Sorry," he said, not really meaning it. "I'm here. And uh…" _How the hell do you say this without sounding completely insane?_ "I think Sam's visions are triggered by touch."

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_"…there's miles of forest out there…"_

_"Basement's clear!"_

_"She's got a verifiable torture chamber down there…"_

_"No sign of the Sullivan girl anywhere."_

Sam gave a low moan and buried his head a little lower in his legs, hoping that the barricade of flesh, muscle, and bone would deter the voices at all.

It didn't. He was locked in a room with the stereo on maximum, every cell blaring with the music of his brutally unfair existence. Why couldn't there be a psychic mute button?

He stopped himself. That sounded too much like Dean.

Worlds away from his current hell hole, he heard the cell phone clap shut. Footsteps shifted against the gravel, making his brain itch beneath the constant stream of humans conversing amongst themselves within. Lifting his head from the cold darkness of the fetal position he had assumed to find his brother standing over him again.

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Dean was staring down at him with a look of extreme amusement on his face, something the younger Winchester found very, very disconcerting.

The only thought he stole from his older brother's mind this time was, _"You're not going to like this."_

"What?" he asked. Dean was biting back his laughter. "What? Dean, what is it?"

The older Winchester shook his head. "You're not going to like this Sammy," he said, and chuckled despite himself. "Not at all."

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**Author's Notes**

Oh no? What's got Dean all amused suddenly? What kind of cruel plan is he cooking up in the sadistic big brother head of is? And why won't Sam like it? Don't worry. It doesn't involve Nair or Shampoo in any way shape or form, but that doesn't mean it's any less embarrassing. I think it's safe to assume that whatever plan Dean and Missouri cooked up, Sam's not going to be a happy camper. Not that he is one now…

Alright, it's official: I'm back in Rez and the Internet is up and running, something I can no longer say about either my mom or my dad's houses. I spent most of August fighting for even the slightest connection, and now I have no intention of leaving the World Wide Web for anything less than the Apocalypse. Even then it's really a toss up. Besides, with it be Orientation week and me having next to nothing in terms of classes, it's safe to say updates will be managed much better now. Still, I sincerely apologize to everyone who has been keeping up with the story thus far. Your support and comments are the high lights of my day, and I would not have been able to continue this long without them. Words really don't do my emotions any justice, just know that I am extremely grateful for all my readers, and whether you believe me or not, you do make my world a brighter place for having left your mark in it.


	24. Brotherly Love

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ is the property of CW and their affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Brotherly Love

"Dean?"

The older Winchester wheezed, trying to breathe between chuckles. "Yeah, Sammy?" he asked with another laugh.

"I'm not doing this."

"Hell yeah you're doing this," Dean said, slumping back against the motel room wall. "Until you learn a little bit of control, you're doing whatever the hell I tell you to do."

Sam groaned, allowing his head to drop backward as he stared upwards at the ceiling. "Are you sure this is the only way?"

"Of course I'm sure!" he answered quickly. "Trust me dude, if there were any other way I would tell you in a heartbeat."

"No you wouldn't," Sam narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother.

After considering his baby brother's statement for a moment, Dean laughed again. "Yeah, you're right."

"Dean!"

A pillow flew across the room towards the older Winchester's head. It only made the elder brother's laugh louder, before snatching the discarded cushion off the floor and chucking it back into Sam's side. "Stop whining and get it over with Sam. Then pop one of those magical pills and get some shut eye."

"I'm not doping myself," he replied, shaking his head to reinforce his point. "And I'm not doing this either! It's stupid and you're not getting it on film!"

"Don't shoot the messenger, college boy. Now get started before I come over there and do it for you." _And Lord knows I will_, Dean thought, patting his pocket for his camera phone. Oh, the black mail from this would be sweet.

"Tin foil, Dean?" Sam demanded, holding up the box of aluminum foil his brother had purchased just moments before.

More snickering. The younger Winchester glared, unamused at the withering form of his older brother as he fought off more giggles. _Well, I'm glad someone finds this entertaining,_ Sam decided with a small 'hmph', dropping the heavy box back onto the bed next to him. Arguing wasn't getting him anywhere, not with Dean being so clearly entertained by the idea Missouri had come up with. He wondered if she even realized what she was doing when she told him, what kind of animal she was unleashing at the slightest notion that Dean was allowed to bully Sam, either directly or indirectly. She must have known, not just because of her power but because of her unnaturally keen common sense. She had to have some idea of the repercussions her idea would generate.

"Look, if you want me to leave the room, fine; I'm gonna go grab some food. But when I come back, I had better see you pulling a M. Night Shyamalan, bro."

Dean took another pillow to his back for that one, but this one was not as detrimental to his mood. He kept sniggering the whole way to the door and didn't even try to stifle the sound till he was outside.

Sam groaned loudly and fell back on the bed, arms folded and pressed tightly to his stomach. _Stupid Dean_, he cursed. _Stupid Dean and stupid Missouri. And this stupid idea!_ He pushed the box of tin foil off the bed, flipped over onto his stomach, and buried his face in the ratty motel blanket, willing the world away.

_Life can't possibly get any worse right now_.

Shifting into a more comfortable position, Sam pulled his long legs up and onto the bed. He didn't care if Dean walked in right now and unleashed all manners of hell upon him for not doing what he was told. _This is the dumbest thing they could have ever come up with_! All he really wanted to do was just disappear, slide into the mattress and come back when all the aluminum foil in the world had been destroyed.

The ragged fabric scratched against his fingers, sending small prickles of electricity up his arm. "Shit," he cursed aloud, digging his hands into the fabric of his coat. He hadn't bothered to remove the damn thing, feeling a little chilly since his return to the city. Besides, his shirt was still hanging in pieces from Andrea's failed attempt at being a seamstress. Even after hiding his skin from everything that might stimulate his overactive senses, he still found himself suffering from a bought of vertigo and (he groaned) a migraine.

_Vision time_, he thought and kicked off the bed, distancing himself from the anything that could set off his hypersensitive psychic powers. Whatever Andrea Withers had done, she had done fast and she had done brashly. And given the nature of his mind where psychic powers checked in and checked out like the Winchesters' did to motels, there was no telling how many abilities she had unlocked, and how powerful they would be when they manifested.

He sank down low on the opposite wall and stared glumly at the tin foil on the floor. As stupid as the idea was, it did have some kind of sound basis in reality. Certain metals did contain or repel telepathy, and aluminum, though a low level barrier, was known to work. M. Night Shyamalan had exploited it in _Signs_ – which was probably the reason Dean was so amused by the idea. And _Constantine_, the bane of the Winchester existence (horribly inaccurate by hunter standards), showed it being used as a wall hanging, holding back the ethereal.

Naturally, that wasn't an option. Dean could afford enough tin foil to cover the room. "Just that hard head of yours, bro," he had said with a laugh before getting out of the car and heading into the store to get just the right amount of aluminum foil to make Sammy a 'psychic proof hat'. He would have gotten gloves too, but figured the younger Winchester could just bury his hands in his pockets. Missouri had made it clear that only Sam's head had to be protected by the foil. The rest of him just had to be covered by cloth to ward off any psychic visions that might afflict him while his defenses were down.

"I'm not doing it," he decided, staring angrily at the bright red box seated not five feet away from him on the floor. "I'm not doing it!"

He bit down hard on his bottom lip, fending off another powerful telepathic attack. The volume of the voices peaked, making his ears ring loudly and his temples pound.

"I HATE YOU!" he shouted, grabbing the foil off the floor and making for the bathroom.

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Dean Winchester braced himself before entering the motel room, using every hunter's instinct he had been taught in order to dodge any flying objects that might be hurled in his direction. Sammy was a stubborn bastard, that was true, but even his ridiculously high endurance level had its limits. All it needed was the proper coaxing before the walls came crashing down; reason finally won him over, and boom! He was sulking on the bed with his head covered in tin foil.

Expecting to see Sam's giant form draped across the bed furthest from the door, metal encased head buried deep under layers of pillows and blankets, Dean was surprised to find the main living space empty with the bathroom door closed completely. The aluminum foil had mysteriously disappeared, but the older Winchester checked the waste baskets before making any assumptions. When there was no place else to look but the washroom, he allowed himself a moment of happiness. Finally, Sam was doing something for his own good. Now if he could only do something for Dean's, the world could spin happily again.

Setting the bag of fast food on the nearby table, Dean marched proudly towards the bathroom. "Sammy?" There was no answer. "Come on metal head. Let me get a good look at that pretty face of yours. You can't run from my camera phone forever."

Sam gave a mirthless laugh. "And I thought all the voices in my head had disappeared."

"Don't you get cocky with me, psychic boy. Let me in there," Dean twisted the handle gruffly and found it locked. This wasn't surprising, not with the current circumstance of their conversation. The last thing the younger Winchester would want was several pictures of his tin foil cranium appearing on Dean's sporadically updated Myspace.

"Oh leave me alone, Dean. This is humiliating enough without you snapping pictures for blackmail."

"Blackmail?" the older Winchester chuckled. "No way, Sammy-boy, you got me all wrong. These puppy's are headed straight to E-bay!"

"DEAN!"

"I'm joking dumbass." _Kind of._ "Now let me in there."

"Just leave me alone, Dean," Sam moaned, finally allowing his true agony to show. "Seriously, just go away."

"You know you're preteen melodrama's gonna last about as long as my bladder and your stomach does, right?" Dean basked in the silence this time, celebrating a quiet victory in his head without any interjection from his psychic brother this time. _Hell yeah!_ He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, but contained himself.

"I hope you have a strong bladder than."

Dean snarled. Sam really was John Winchester's son.

"You're gonna starve to death before my dick explodes."

A pause. His brother was pondering his rebuttal very critically, going in for the kill.

"I'll live off toilet paper."

"Yeah. The other, other, other source of fiber," Dean rolled his eyes and took a few deep breaths. There would be no reasoning with Sam tonight, no infallible logic to brow beat him out of the washroom with. He would just have to wait it out, win back Sammy's trust, and then snap a few photos for the Internet. With a sigh, he relented, and finally resorted to (he shuddered) gentle reasoning.

"Come on, Sammy. You gotta come out some time."

"It's Sam, and I'm not coming out with this stuff on my head."

"Look, dinner time's truce time, okay? I won't come after you with the camera till after you've eaten something."

"Even if I were an idiot – which I'm not – that line wouldn't work on me in a hundred years."

Dean groaned and dropped his head against the door, trying hard to hold back his screaming. _You gotta drop this tough-guy act, Sammy_. _It's gonna kill you, unless I do it first._

"Fine, then," he said with a shrug. "You don't know what you're missing."

He ignored Sam's cynical response, mumbling a half-hearted, "Whatever," in order to drown out the kid's sulking. If he was well enough to pout, he was well enough to eat, and that meant the tin foil idea was working. For the time being, anyways. While taking it off to come eat was an option, Dean was tired of witnessing his brother in pain. He'd rather have Sam sulking in the restroom than moaning and groaning at that table.

_Still_, he decided, _he's got to eat something._

Grabbing the food off the table, Dean marched over to the bathroom, fanning the scent of the burgers under the bathroom door Sam. "Come on, Toucan Sam. Follow your nose."

"Stop it, Dean."

"Oh I'm just getting started with you, Sammy. You forget that I know the lyrics to every rock song ever written and can't sing for shit."

When he didn't receive any response to that, Dean took a deep breath, making a big show of it before belting out, "BACK IN BLACK!" in a manner that would have Angus Young rolling over in his grave.

"DEAN!"

But the older Winchester wasn't listening. Between mouthfuls of food, he continued 'singing' (a term used extremely loosely in this case) one of AC/DC's greatest hits.

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For twenty minutes, Sam had the most soothing silence of his life. He had pulled off a long sheet of tin foil and just sat there, holding the paper thin metal around his skull to block out the offending voices bombarding him from all angles. Not that he distrusted Missouri or his brother, but the idea of smothering oneself in aluminum to ward off telepathy was just as silly as it sounded to Sam. Thankfully though, it worked. One minute the voices were there, the next they were gone, and Sam was alone in his own mind again.

Until Dean had shown up. That changed everything. Because Lord knows, if he walked out of the bathroom looking like the Tin Man from _The Wizard of Oz_, he'd never hear the end of it.

He lowered the tin foil at the first scent of food, his stomach growling painfully after his recent burst of energy in the early afternoon. The voices were quick to pounce on him again though, forcing him to bury his face under the cold foil again. _This really, really fucking sucks_, he groaned. _In fact, 'suck' is an understatement for this. This is shit._

Dean's singing made him groan even louder. Why did the forces of the universe hate him so much to condemn him to a lifetime of this? Craving burgers while listening to his older brother's shitty singing voice? _There is no God_. _There can't be a God. And if there is, He can't possibly find this entertaining_.

Unless God was like Dean. In which case, Sam would just kill himself and get it over with. After twenty-two – almost twenty-three – years spent being annoyed by Dean and his inane antics, the last thing he wanted was to spend the rest of eternity in an afterlife where Metallica provided the soundtrack.

Pulling off the tin foil, Sam embraced the voices, closing his eyes against the noise pollution. He lowered his head into his sleeve, breathing deeply as he focused inward, searching his mind for the limits of his power. _This kind of stuff works in the movies_, he thought. _It has to have **some** basis in reality_.

He felt himself sink from awareness and descend into a dark void, cool and comforting despite the sounds dancing within. Sam's features tightened, physically grimacing as he concentrated hard on one of the voices out of the many. It was female, high pitched and nasally, easily distinguished from the others. She was babbling on about something useless, something Sam didn't particularly care about one way or another. What he was truly focused on was exerting control over the ability, limit its impossibly huge range to something he could deal with.

The small victory was short lived, but it gave him hope to try again. This time he picked out a boy's voice, one hidden behind several others. Considering his experience, he didn't expect his mind to filter it out, but with several moments of intense concentration, he did it. The childish voice filled his head, blissfully alone.

Sam's eyes opened and the noises returned. _Come on Sam, _he urged himself. _Get rid of them all_.

He relaxed again, drawing his attention back to the darkness inside his head, feeling his whole being drop out of the conscious realm sickeningly. Holding back the urge to throw up, he kept his mind focused on the singular task of blocking out the excess thoughts from his own. He reached out with what he believed was his telepathy, and when he felt the edges of his power come to an abrupt halt, he pulled back, drawing it towards his body again. It was like a shrinking circle, and he used the analogy to focus his efforts better.

Miraculously, it started to work. The number of voices grew fewer and fewer, until one by one they disappeared, and Sam was alone again.

He breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the edges of his abilities wane again, inviting other people's minds back for another feast on his brain. Sam remembered the ring around his brain again. _Leave me alone, _he willed. _Get out of my head!_

And they did.

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Dean was halfway through the second verse of AC/DC's 'Highway to Hell' when the bathroom door finally opened. He made a show of reaching for his camera phone, just in case Sam decided to grace him with his tin foiled smothered presence, but his baby brother had removed whatever making of a hat had once been there and was looking pretty well unaffected by the bare flesh he was exposing to the world.

"Aliens no longer reading your mind, Haley Joel?"

Sam threw a crumpled ball of tin foil at his brother. "Jackass."

Dean looked mildly impressed. "Wow. You got through that pretty damn fast."

"Yeah, well…" the younger Winchester winced. "They're not completely gone, but I don't think I'll need any more freakish cures for the common psychic power for a while."

"So are you still 'not hungry' or did the toilet paper go straight through you?"

"Jerk," Sam grabbed the bag off the floor and dug around for his share. Most of his fries had spilled out across the bottom of the bag, each one hotter than the next, making his fingertips burn with hot grease. Images flashed across his mind, sizzling with boiling oil and potatoes. _Christ,_ Sam dropped them immediately. Thoughts of not eating came and went, because he couldn't deny it: he was starving. Being kidnapped by a mad woman who opened up all your psychic channels in the matter of minutes did that to a person. Pulling his sleeve over his fingers, he finally grabbed some fries and tossed them in his mouth.

Lord, they tasted like deep fried heaven.

"So…" Dean broke the tenuous silence as Sam shoved a fry in their mouth. Neither brother had moved out of exhaustion. The floor was just a good a place to eat as any. "Any other psychic abilities turn up, Miss Cleo?"

Sam wanted to comment on the growing annoyance of his brother's nicknames, but figured Dean wouldn't listen anyways. He settled on another fry and set about pondering something equally as embarrassing, though it was difficult with his telepathy threatening to pounce on him again any second. _How the hell does Missouri do this?_

"No," he shook his head in response, looking like someone had just kicked his puppy. There wasn't really any other way to look. Life was seriously out to get him right now. "Just…telepathy."

"You seeing stuff?"

"Only every time I touch something."

"Touch your burger. See if it moos."

Sam hesitated and gave his brother the 'look'. "I think I just became vegetarian."

Dean shuddered at the very word. _Sacrilege!_

"I don't get it," Sam confessed, his thinking overcoming his urge to eat. "These visions weren't triggered by anything before, and now, if I even look at something the wrong way it sets me off."

_Ugh…the voices are coming back. Note to self: avoid long-winded speeches._

"We are totally heading to Vegas after this," Dean tossed another fry into his mouth.

He got that 'look' again, the one John Winchester invented as a prelude to corporal punishment. Except that Sam wasn't nearly as intimidating as dad when he did it. If anything, he just looked funny, in Dean's opinion anyways.

"You uh…" Sam began, but never finished. The words were caught in his throat. The older hunter waited patiently for him to make a complete sentence, but it never came, and his introduction lingered in the air like his younger brother had simply died from the strain of speaking.

"Yeah…?" he urged his brother to continue. That was all it took to turn Sam off though, and he suddenly shook his head.

"Never mind."

"If you got something to say, dude, than just say it."

Sam was chewing on his bottom lip, distracting himself from the weakening barriers of his mind. The floodgates of telepathy were reopening, any he after a moment of blocking his mind again with careful visualizations, he continued. "You even think this stuff'll go away?"

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, looking only half-interested in what his brother was saying. The rest of him was completely focused on fishing more fries out of the container.

"I mean these abilities…" Sam repeated, finding the floor very interesting all of a sudden. "You think I'll be normal again?"

"We've never been normal, bro," the older Winchester grinned as he grabbed his promised prize and shoveled it into his mouth.

"You know what I mean. You ever think these powers will go away?"

Dean hesitated before he answered that, thinking hard on the ramifications of his response. What the hell was he supposed to say? Be brutally honest: no, Sam, you're going to be a psychic freak like Missouri for the rest of your life. You two could probably go into business together, maybe hit the road – THE AMAZING SAMMY! 5 bucks for a vision of the future. Warning: It might be of your death. The only other option was to outright lie to him. Sure Sammy, they'll go away. Maybe pigs'll start flying too.

He was worried at first that Sam heard his entire inner monologue, and was concerned that when he finally met his brother's gaze he would see the poor kid's whole idealized existence come crashing to pieces again. Luckily, Sam's control was stronger that Dean expected, and the younger Winchester was sitting quietly, eyes piercing his older brother's soul for an answer.

"I honestly don't know," was the only response Dean could muster. "I mean, Andrea Withers did some freaky shit to that head of yours dude, but I can't believe any of it's permanent."

"Really?"

"Yeah, Sam, really," he answered quickly to avoid revealing his true feelings on the subject. He really couldn't deal with one of Sam's emotional breakdowns right now, not when he was so freakishly close to having one of his own. "After we kill that son-of-a-bitch, all this'll boil over. You'll go back to college or some shit, I'll…" he fell silent, considering the possibilities for a moment. "I'll…settle down…or something."

"You? The man who perfected the one night stand is going to settle down?" Sam cocked a brow. _Are you on crack?_

"Or something," Dean repeated. Jeez, the kid took everything so literally.

Sam just laughed and ate another fry, still using his sleeve as a barrier.

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Pale moonlight streamed in through the breaks in construction equipment, giving the entire warehouse an eerie and surreal appearance. Shadows transformed into monsters before Sam's weary eyes, writhing in the darkness before reaching out for him.

He hissed in surprised, stumbling backwards to avoid them. Apparently he wasn't the only one either. There was the sound of rapid breathing, followed by a shrill scream and rushed footsteps pounding across the pavement.

Blonde hair swept through the darkness only to dive back into the shadows once more. Adrenaline surged into Sam's system when he saw the figure for a split second in the moonlight. She was small, no more than half his height, with long golden locks and fair skin that gleamed brightly when the moonlight shone upon it. Even in the darkness, she was as white as a ghost, something that didn't help her if she was trying to hide.

"Hey," Sam said softly, voice echoing into the miles of empty space around him. The metallic structure he was in had excellent acoustics, pronouncing every sound with pitch perfect clarity. The young girl's breathing was the loudest of all – in, out, in, out – made ragged by her fear. Sam could practically taste her terror in that instant, ears pounding with her desperation as every breath screamed for help that would never come.

She crumpled in her corner, sobbing freely. "Please…" she begged. "Please…just leave me alone…"

Shrill hisses filled the darkness, a cold slap against her words. They danced over the ceiling from all directions, coming from everywhere yet nowhere in particular. Sam's senses were betraying him. He couldn't hunt what he could see or hear, no matter how good his training had been.

The young girl dropped her face into her palms. "Please…please just let me go."

"Anne?" Sam asked, recognizing the pained voice from his previous visions. It was always hard to tell in the darkness, but there was no use in denying it. The younger girl was most definitely Anne Sullivan.

Like most of his visions, the girl didn't respond. He tried calling her name again. "Anne? Can you hear me?"

He took her continued screaming as a no, she couldn't hear him. Of course there wasn't much else to hear behind the menacing hisses moving slowly in her direction. They rippled across the ceiling in waves, loud to soft, each time moving further and further along.

_Where are you?_ He wondered silently, searching the area for anything distinctive. _Come on…where are you_.

Beyond the warehouse they were nothing but walls and crates, each of them offering a hiding place for the advancing creature. There couldn't be many store yards in Boston, but Sam wanted to be sure. Daylight was swiftly leaving him in the real world, and the placement of the moon suggested that this vision was fast in coming. All he needed was a landmark of some kind, something that made this place distinctive, so he could find the girl and bring her home.

"I'm coming," he promised her, words falling on deaf ears. "I'm coming, I'm coming; I promise…just…where the hell are you?"

He made a mad dash for the outdoors, still able to hear Anne quivering in the back of his mind. "Just give me a sign, please, just one little sign…"

Turning to face the outer wall of the warehouse, he stared at the massive company insignia painted onto it. 'Northern Industries.'

Anne screamed and sobbed her hardest just as the hissing got to her. Sam lowered his gaze, hopeless beyond belief. There wasn't anything he could do, not here, not now. He only wished he wasn't privy to what followed. Blood splattered against the walls and flesh tore loudly as Anne continued shrieking, bawling prayers into the night.

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Sam's sudden reemergence into consciousness almost made Dean leap out of his skin, not a good reaction when he was behind the wheel of the car. They were heading over to the hospital, trying to make the most of their remaining daylight by hunting through birth certificates. No matter how concerned Sam was for the Sullivan's, they were two days away from the battle of their lifetime, and neither of them knew where the battle was taking place.

The drive wasn't that long, but after taking some Advil and eating some food, Sam had finally succumbed to sleep, head against the window, hands buried in the thick layers of his jacket.

Until now. Now he was hyperventilating, staring through the windshield at the city passing by around him.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Dean shouted, nearly running through an intersection. "What the hell, Sam?"

The kid didn't answer. He dug through the glove compartment for the map and started scanning the Boston streets for something he couldn't seem to find.

"Where's the industrial district?" he asked.

"What?"

"Where is it, Dean?"

"Right next to the non-industrial one? Christ, I don't know, Sam. Why the hell are you looking for that anyways?"

Sam gasped for breath. "I know where Anne Sullivan is."

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**Author's Notes**

Whew! This one's a doozy. Took me quite a while to get it done, but, I did it! Between reading up on my Colonial Literature and taking German – something I never expected, but apparently I require a second language to do any type of graduate work…in English – I finally finished the twenty-third chapter and figured out my ending! It's been a fun week. Lot's of _Supernatural _– thanks to my friend's new found obsession, thanks to me.

This chapter, especially the parts about Sam's telepathy, were a little confusing to write. I hope I've communicated them clearly enough to be understood.

Review responses are in my profile. Have an awesome weekend everyone!


	25. Physical Activity

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four: Physical Activity

The Winchester family had always been short on options. Their lives were nothing but ultimatums. Why Dean didn't see this one coming was beyond him. He assumed that his own powers of foresight had just been absorbed by Sammy's uber-psychic brain, leaving him with the shittiest job of all: making decisions. It was so much easier with John Winchester. That man had an answer for everything. It wasn't always right and it wasn't always fair, but it was an answer, and that would do. Maybe not for Sam, but the kid always was a curious little worm; always wanting more, more, more…

Dean took comfort in his father's decisions. He trusted them without question because he knew, deep down, in the very depths of his soul, his father always had their best interests in mind. His father was his entire world, his God, his lifeline. John Winchester was the reason they had survived as long as they had. He was God. He was Satan. He was everything. He was all that mattered.

_Except where are your answers now, dad?_ He pursed his lips tightly, gritting his teeth till his jaw hurt. _Where the hell are your orders now? In your journal? In your books? In your guns? _Dean rolled his eyes. _Your orders are back in Des Moines, Dad. Back with you. Back in your useless, fucking comatose body stuck inside your useless, fucking comatose head._

He revved the accelerator and felt the engine burn, easing some of the rage building within him, only to have it return a moment later when he realized he didn't know where he was going anymore. Five seconds ago, they were going to the hospital. But like so many other times in their lives, five seconds changed everything. Five seconds was all it took for Mary and Jess to burn up on the ceiling. Five seconds was all Sam's psychic brain needed to open itself up. Normal people with normal lives saw five seconds as just five seconds, but to a Winchester, five seconds could change the world.

_Jesus_, Dean cursed inwardly. They didn't have time for this. The demon was going to be there, in that city, preying off an infant, and they were still debating whether or not they were going to save Anne Sullivan. _Correction_, the older Winchester glared even hard at the road. _I'm still debating_. To Sam, there wasn't a choice. If they had the time, they were going to use it saving every last victim in his visions, bad track record be damned. It was only Dean who saw the situation as complicated, because out of all the patron Gods they could have gotten, the Winchesters had Robert Frost calling the shots. There were two roads diverging in the woods, and fuck, they couldn't just take one, go back and do the other without seriously screwing up the rest of the poem.

He wanted to kill this demon. He wanted to send the damn thing back to hell in a hand basket, and then drive him out of existence as slowly and as painfully as possible. The bastard deserved it. He had taken everything Dean held dear and burned it up, leaving only ashes behind. Beyond his father and his brother, Dean truly hated this thing, and he was ready and willing to kill it when the time came.

_But there's still time_, he felt Sammy's eyes tell him. _There's still two days, Dean._

Dean sighed. "You're sure you know where she is?"

_Please say no. Please, Sammy. I have to kill this demon._

"Place called Northern Industries," Sam replied. "It can't be far Dean." There was a pause, making his next statement twice as powerful. "Please, Dean, we have to try."

Damn his brother's moral compass. Damn it to hell.

* * *

"Northern Industries," Dean repeated, running his finger over the Business Listings again, just to make sure he hadn't missed it the first three times. _Someone up there must hate me_, he thought bitterly. _Phone book duty sucks even more than birth certificate hunting._

"There's a North American Industries," he said loudly so Sam could hear. The younger Winchester was still sitting in the passenger seat of the rental car with one of his unnaturally long legs stretched out through the open door. The other was twitching restlessly under the dash, trying to stimulate Sam's exhausted brain for just a little while longer. He was currently pouring through his father's journal and needed all the brain cells he could get at his disposal. John Winchester didn't just write like Yoda. He was better at it than Yoda. Hell, he perfected the art of the dyslexic narrative.

"Northern Industries," Sam corrected him.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," the older Winchester growled. _Smart ass._ "It's not here."

"It has to be."

"Has to be," Dean mumbled under his breath. _Jesus, Sammy, a lot of things 'have to be'. Doesn't mean they are._ "What if it's out of state?"

"I would have known, Dean," the younger Winchester retorted irritably. Dean rolled his eyes. Of course Sam would have known if it was out of state. What the hell kind of idiot was he to question his brother's newly awakened psychic abilities? "This place is in Boston, some kind of remote industrial district."

"Well I don't know what to tell you," the older Winchester slammed the phone book shut. "I've checked all the business listings and Yellow Pages in this book. There's nothing."

Sam said nothing. He just kept reading, eyes running over the frail pages smoothly as he tried to decipher not only his father's nasty penmanship (which was a job in and unto itself), but also the information concealed within it. He'd forgotten how many hunts they had on the East Coast, how many exorcisms were courtesy of the Winchesters back when they were a family, or at least damn good at pretending to be one.

Cradling the book awkwardly on his sleeve-covered palms, he scanned over the pages once more before trying to turn to the next one. Pulling the fabric of his shirt tightly over his hand, he tried to grasp hold of the frail parchment in order to flip it over, but was unable to do so without a better grip. _Damn it_, he closed the book. He didn't have the time or the energy for visions about his father.

"She's here, Dean," he shook his head. "I'm right about this, I know I am."

"Relax, dude," Dean replied, leaning on the opposite side of the car door against the hood. "No one's calling you a liar. We're just not looking in the right place, that's all. Gotta widen our scope or something."

"We've only got a few hours," Sam said, casting a worried glance at the horizon. The sun was partially set by now, leaving behind a sky of reds, pinks, and indigos. He lowered his head in shame, unable to meet it any longer knowing that once it was gone, Anne Sullivan was going to die. "We've got to find this place, Dean. This thing is going to kill her."

"Yeah, this thing. You know what it is yet?"

"No," he sound offended. "If Dad ever hunted this thing he never wrote about it."

Dean laughed. John Winchester? Hunt something and not write about it? Not possible.

"Sulfur scent means demon," he said, testing the words on his tongue. His stomach tightened on the last word leaving him physically ill. "And you said it hissed?"

"A snake demon?" Sam stared long and hard at his brother, not buying the explanation for one second.

"You got any better suggestions, lemme hear 'em. Hissing plus sulfur scent equals snake demon in my book."

"Well yeah, but…"

"But what? You can't argue with math, college boy."

"But the snake is pretty much a universal symbol for evil Dean. I mean, Satan, Sammael, Lilith (he swallowed hard and took a deep breath. The name had knocked the wind out of him) are all associated with the serpent. And if one of them showed up, there would have been omens of some kind. But all the demonic signs showed up after she was taken."

Dean turned his head away, considering the information. There wasn't any other explanation for the sulfur scent besides demon involvement. No lower level creature, no matter how supernatural, marked its territory with that sort of smell. But demons had unmistakable foreplay; stuff that always built up to their arrival and gave their location away to a well trained hunter who knew what he was looking for. It was what made hunting so easy for Dean: there were always patterns and binaries. The supernatural were a rhythmic, predictable bunch.

This case though, like so many others, just didn't make sense at first glance.

That's when it hit him, like a lightning bolt to the brain.

"Then what if it was already here?"

Sam stared long and hard at his brother as a chill running down his spine. Dean continued.

"All that shit that dad was talking about, those 'signs' or whatever, all showed up before the demon got there. Why?"

The younger Winchester's mouth went dry. Dean was usually shoot first, ask questions never. Since when did he come up with the explanations? "Umm…energy imbalances. The ethereal equilibrium trying to correct itself."

He stopped himself, another chill going down his spine.

Dean, who was on a pretty big roll by then, one he was exceptionally proud of, finished telling his revelation.

"Eventually the demon would have been integrated into the system or whatever and the bells and whistles would stop going off."

"So it could attack whenever it wanted to," Sam concluded, sighing exasperatedly. "Jesus…this thing could have been here for years and no one would have known about it."

The older Winchester didn't nod. He didn't have to. The answer spoke for itself, in all its shitty glory, that once again they were too little, too late. By the time they got the chance to act, Anne Sullivan would probably be dead, and the demon would be back in hiding. Joy.

"This warehouse…we uh…"

"I know," Dean said, immediately knowing what Sam was going to say. "Are you sure that's the place?"

"Positive," Sam shrugged.

"Right," his older brother sighed. "Crap…"

"What?"

Dean grumbled something under his breath angrily. Sam narrowed his eyes, unable to tell exactly what his brother had said. "What?"

The expression on Dean's face said it all. _Are you dumb?_ "We gotta ask for directions…"

"So?" Sam still didn't see the point.

"Seriously dude. I don't think guys are allowed to do that."

If John Winchester's journal hadn't been so vitally important to them, Sam would have chucked it at Dean's head.

* * *

Anne Sullivan had never liked physical activity much. James thrived on it; lived for it, breathed for it. She had danced her way through almost fifteen years of hip-hop, jazz, and tap, with enough energy leftover for both gymnastics and track and field. Those genetics were exclusive though, so Anne was better known for her brains instead of her brawn. This made running a chore, even with an adrenaline boost. 

She clambered up several crates as quietly as she could manage, holding her breath as often as she could. The slightest sound was carried far and away by the vast, empty ceilings above her, and even ragged breathing was enough to turn the entire warehouse into an auditory bear trap. She made a silent promise to restart ballet the second she got home, as long as it meant that the next time she was being chased by some giant carnivorous creature, she was able to get away.

Dropping back down to the floor, Anne took a moment to map out her surroundings. Whatever had been chasing her had fallen silent, probably trying to pick up on her trail again. The silence ate her alive in the few moments she cared to listen, grasping hold of her senses for fear it might be broken any second by that God awful hissing again. _There's gotta be a way out of here_, she thought. _There has to be._

Jogging around another stack of crates, she reached out blindly through the darkness and ran her tiny hands over the wall in front of her. Moonlight streamed in through jagged holes in the ceiling, useless with the chaos below. The whole warehouse was a labyrinth of old machinery, steel containers, and century old newspapers hanging in fragments from every surface. Pitch black shadows stretched high on the walls, hiding the world from Anne's eyes. She had only her hands to depend on now without the luxury of sound.

A hiss shattered the silence; crystal clear and piercing in its clarity. The sound sent shock waves of panic down Anne's spine. Her already elevated heart rate doubled while her hands shook over the surface of the wall, slick with sweat. Gasping for breath, she took a shaky step to her right, moving away from the sounds towards what she hoped was freedom.

"Come on," she beseeched the darkness breathlessly. "Come on, come on, come on…" _An exit. Please. A door. A window. A hole in the wall. ANYTHING. Just let me go, PLEASE._

Gravel scraped against flesh from behind her, followed by another hiss. She clenched her teeth, holding back a scream as she bolted through the mess of crates, dodging obstacles as she made her way through the shadow stained warehouse.

A sudden blast of hot breath struck her heels, sharp as knives and smelling like corpses.

Anne shrieked, not daring to look behind her as she darted forward. "HELP ME!" she shouted. "SOMEBODY! HELP ME! HEL…"

Her scream was cut short as something shot out of the shadows, grabbed her by the arm, and dragged her out of sight.

* * *

**Author's Notes**

It has been a month, fair readers, and I'm getting very tired of apologizing. For that, I feel the need to say I'm sorry, but that introduction is getting incredibly redundant and repetitive. I feel terrible for leaving the website for this long without an update. Why professors insist on handing out long winded assignments about literary theories I'll have no idea. Sam Winchester was right. "Welcome to higher education."

-Beats head against the wall-

I regret to announce that I can no longer make even educated guesses about my updates. I would like to say that my chapters will come weekly. Alas, no dice. I can tell you that I have no intention of abandoning this story, and have planned out the remainder while in class. Due to the length, I am going to split it into two parts: either _Last One Standing _Parts 1 and 2 or name the second half something else entirely. Hope you'll all stay with me that long.

I feel horrible, but I'm always thankful to have an audience. Enjoy!

This time, I decided to give this little 'Review Response' thing a try. Hope they all get to you. Confounded technology overcomplicates everything… (shakes fist).

See you next installment!


	26. What Doesn't Kill You

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five: What Doesn't Kill You…

Sam clapped his hand over Anne Sullivan's mouth to keep her from screaming, forgetting about his mind's newly discovered quirk. Twenty-four hours ago, it would have been easy to hold her mouth shut with his bare skin. Now, it was pure torture. Every pore in his palm was a direct link to his innermost thoughts, and even though Anne wasn't screaming out loud anymore, she was certainly screaming inside his mind.

His vision went black and for a second, all Sam could see was a dark expanse of stars with Anne's inner monologue as a chilling soundtrack. He was watching _Star Trek_ via a Vulcan Mind Meld, trying to drag his thoughts away from hers as best he could. There was nothing he could do though, no mental images to focus his strength upon that gave him relief from the incessant images that played rapidly through his mind. He was reliving the life and times of Anne Sullivan on fast forward; watching every moment from her earliest memory to the present where all her mind could utter was, "Let me go! Get me out of here!"

Dean was too busy hunting their snake demon to notice that Sam wasn't all there. The second his brother had snatched the kid, he jumped around the corner with a flashlight, searching for the monster in the dark. Despite the hisses reverberating across the ceiling, there was nothing but a dirt lined floor to greet Dean's well trained eyes.

"Damn it," he hissed under his breath, and turned back to Sam just as he broke loose from his recent wave of visions. He lowered down to Anne's ear, an amazing feat for someone of Sam's height, and whispered in her ear for her to keep it down, that they were here to help her.

"I'm going to…" he winced as her childlike mind melded with his again, her overwhelming fear and anxiety making his whole body shake like he was a toddler again. Swallowing hard, he restarted. "I'm going to let go of you, but you have to be quiet, okay?"

Anne nodded shakily. Sam felt her fears abate somewhat, thankfully, causing his own body to relax alongside hers. He pried his hand off her mouth and released his grip on her arms, amazed to see that even though they weren't touching anymore, he was still shivering. The threads of Anne's consciousness were still fluttering in his brain, giving him conflicting sensations. On the one hand, there was Sam Winchester: level-headed demon hunting son of John Winchester; but on the other there was the pervasive, omnipresent Anne Sullivan, whose twelve year old psyche crippled all his emotional reserves until he may as well have been a child again himself.

"Who are you?" she asked quietly, looking between the two of them with wide, searching eyes. In even the dim moonlight, Anne appeared like an apparition. She was deathly pale with hair so blonde it may as well have been alabaster. Her baby blue eyes were only accented by the moonlight, beaming like mirrors.

Sam shivered, but it wasn't just from her appearance. He felt like he was being watched from the inside out by Anne's piercing stare, and he could feel parts of her still lingering in his untrained brain.

"Uh…I'm Dean, this is Sam, and we'll be rescuing you today," the older Winchester said with his trademark grin. He shot a concerned look at his younger brother, who was looking a little spacey. "While Sam wraps his head around that, I'm going to go empty an entire barrel of magnum bullets into your snake-like friend. Sound good?"

Anne cocked a brow at Dean's explanation of events. The tension surrounding him was so thick he could cut it with a knife. "Alrighty," he nodded, and flipped the flashlight in his hand. "Thank you, you're a marvelous audience."

Sam snapped out of his reverie. "Nice of you to join us, Miss Cleo. You wanna get the damsel in distress out of harm's way for a bit?"

His head seemed foggier than usual, but somehow, Sam managed to do something that vaguely resembled a nod. "Yeah," he said, and gestured to Anne. "Come on. Let's get you out…"

They were about to take off down the aisle of crates when Anne shrieked and pointed at an indistinct shadow looming over top of them. Whatever creature was hanging over their heads didn't give them a lot of time to react. It lunged forward, gnashing its jaws wildly at Sam, so quickly it was just a blur of emerald scales and ivory fangs in the moonlight.

Dean fired several times before it disappeared again, emptying the barrel as it slithered away. The three made their way into the long corridor of crates behind them and broke into a run for the opposite end of the warehouse, hoping to lead the creature into an area that gave them the upper hand, with Dean trying to reload and fire madly as they took off.

Winchester luck struck again though. The far end of the warehouse was nothing but shattered wooden beams and fragments of rusted metal, leaving them cornered like rats in a maze.

"You don't have any backup plans do you?" Anne asked fearfully as the creature reemerged from the depths. It slid down from the top of the crates, dropping onto the floor gently before slithering towards them. The small cracks of light glistened off of its scales, causing it to gleam like a precious stone. Its eyes were black under the brilliance of the moon, and only the whites were present as it advanced upon them, hissing loudly to the air.

* * *

Dean wanted to shoot something. And not just hitman style either. He _really_ wanted to shoot something. He wanted to unload an entire arsenal into this bitch. Unfortunately, reloading wasn't the easiest thing in the world with a ten foot snake about to turn you, your brother, and your rescuee into a late night snack. 

_And things were just starting to go so well_, he moaned inwardly. They had nearly abandoned the search for Anne at the payphone when they couldn't find the warehouse, but, as luck would have it, Sam's psychic powers struck again. And not in a particularly good way. Sam had placed his hand ever-so-harmlessly against the Impala dashboard and was suddenly off to the races. His mind saw fit to take him on a little road trip around Boston, soaring through the streets towards the outskirts of town before high tailing it back to the downtown sector of the city. It wasn't until his nose started bleeding that Dean realized what was happening and finally pulled him away.

"Jesus, Sammy…" he said, privately berating himself for not buying his brother gloves earlier. The kid's hands were just antennas for psychic energy, picking up even faint signals and making the most out of them. Dean pulled a Kleenex out from the box under the seat, barely checking if it was clean or not before shoving it around his brother's nose. Sam just blinked lazily, his whole body hanging like dead weight. Dean had total control about where Sam's body went, and he took advantage of it, tilting his brother's head forward for him. The younger Winchester wasn't just out of it; he was completely gone.

"Turn right…at the fork…and the…"

"Easy there, Sammy," Dean said. His brother was rambling, mumbling under his breath about random directions and locations. The older Winchester was fairly sure 'Cheers' came up at least once before Sam finally fell silent, closing his eyes as if asleep.

"Sam?" Dean shook him, still holding his brother's nose. "Sammy?"

"…t'ssam…" the kid managed, still reeling.

Dean rolled his eyes. He knew exactly what his little brother was saying without being told. "Might wanna try it in English next time, Sammy," he quipped, shifting in the seat to get in a more comfortable position to help his brother.

"…why is this…unh…"

"Shh…don't talk," Dean hushed him. "Just take it slow, Sam."

The older Winchester's insistence finally won over and Sam took a couple minutes to rest his cluttered mind. Fogs swirled throughout his woozy brain forcing him in and out of awareness; yet for some reason, Sam couldn't help but feel comfortable. Dean was always there; ready to catch him if he fell any further.

Ten minutes later, Sam had regained some semblance of conversational skills. His nose had stopped bleeding and the clouds in his head had dissipated, leaving sunny skies and clear thoughts perfect for telling Dean exactly what he saw.

"I think…I can find Anne Sullivan," Sam said, taking a couple deep breaths.

"You mean blowing your brains out actually has a purpose?"

"I think if I concentrate…" the younger Winchester lifted his hands to place them back on the dashboard just as Dean grabbed them out of the air.

"Whoa! Whoa, hang on there one second college boy. You aren't seriously thinking about doing that again."

"What else are we going to do, Dean? There's no record of this warehouse in the phone book, no GPS locator, no…"

"Sam."

"There's no other way of finding her without…"

"Sam!"

The younger Winchester snapped out of his reverie and shot his brother a serious look. Dean matched it. "Don't blow anything in that precious brain of yours. Now we're going to figure this out."

"How?!" Sam was on the verge of a total psychotic break. "She's gonna die, Dean. This thing is going to kill her. And if the only way to find her is 'blowing my brains out' than I'm going to do it!"

Dean looked his brother straight in the eye, trying to hold all of his emotions inside him. He was terrified of that look. The intensity of his brother's stare made his insides churn, his muscles twitch, his body shake. Because that look was the spitting image of John Winchester.

Sighing deeply, Dean conceded to his brother's intensity. "Fine," he said. "But I swear, you kill yourself, don't come crying to me for sympathy as a ghost."

_Don't you die on me, Sammy._

Sam nodded nervously, taking a deep breath as he focused his thoughts on Anne Sullivan. With his eyes closed, he lifted his hands to the dashboard and set his palms against it.

It only took a couple seconds for Sam's nose to start bleeding again. His eyelids fluttered and his entire body shook violently before Dean finally grabbed him and yanked him back into his seat.

"Jesus," his heart sank as he watched his brother flounder to consciousness for the second time. "No touching stuff anymore."

"I'm done..." Sam confessed, breathing heavily under the waves of blood coming out his nose. Dean was busy wiping them off when he muttered, "I found her."

"Good on you, Anthony Michael Hall," the older Winchester said, silently berating himself for letting Sam do this to himself. He wanted to get out of the car and punch something, desperate to have something break under his fingertips for what he had done to his brother. Somehow, though, he swallowed his anger and held another Kleenex to Sam's nose, trying to staunch the blood flow. Even before Sam had fully recovered, he was giving Dean the directions to the warehouse. They had arrived just in time to pull Anne away from the snake the first time, and then drop her in front of it again.

_Nice. _

Dean snapped the barrel back into the gun after finally getting the last of the bullets into it. The snake hissed loudly, eyeing the weapon and Dean with an insatiable hunger. It seemed to smile in the darkness, red eyes gleaming with a sick sort of happiness as it observed them.

Lifting the gun, Dean gave another smirk. "Smile pretty," he said, and fired.

The snake snapped back, hissing at Dean. The elder hunter said nothing as he continued firing, adjusting his aim accordingly as the snake dodged one bullet after another.

"I don't think that's working, Dean!"

He ignored his brother. "Get her the hell out of here, Sam!"

Anne didn't have to be told twice. She slid behind Dean and took off down the aisle, with a hesitant Sam in tow. The snake hurled itself toward the space that had recently occupied, receiving only a mouthful of steel for its efforts.

Dean tossed down his weapon and threw the first punch – straight to the back of the snake's skull with all the force he could muster. A sickening crack echoed throughout the warehouse and the snake dropped, momentarily stunned from the blow. The bloodlust within Dean was far from satisfied, though, and with an equal amount of zeal, he dropped his foot down on the damn thing and held it on the snake's throat.

"Still hungry now, bitch?" he asked. The snake struggled, spluttering in short, clipped hisses like Morse code. Dean even thought he heard 'SOS' every once in a while, something that made the moment that much more satisfying. He booted the thing in the side, knocking the wind out of it before applying an increasing amount of pressure to its neck.

The creature stopped suddenly. Dean's heart pounded wildly in his ears, overcome with the satisfaction of the kill. The sensation didn't last long though. The snake its body to the side so suddenly that Dean didn't have any time to move. It coiled its tail around his other ankle, tightening on Dean's leg before yanking the limb out from under him. The older Winchester fell back, striking his head painfully against the metal siding of the warehouse. Another swift jerk and he was thrown straight forward, face first into the floor.

His instincts didn't allow for a moment's rest. Dean flipped onto his back and jumped to his feet before the snake could bite him. The damn thing gnashed its teeth in the darkness, splattering saliva and potentially venom against the cement. Dean grabbed one of the smaller wooden beams off the floor and took a swing. The snake dodged it, scampering into the darkness for a moment before reemerging with renewed zeal. With the air of a professional player, Dean advanced, cornering the snake against the wall where it coiled, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Dean didn't give it time for one. He brought the beam down hard on the snake's skull once, twice, three times. And just for good measure, he figured another ten blows should do it. By the time he finally stopped, there was nothing left of the snake's skull but a pudding of brains and blood, laced with sharp bone fragments just for texture. His chest heaved, adrenaline pumping from the thrill of the hunt. It took an immense deal of effort to finally drop the beam, his fingers stiff from his outburst.

He turned back to the warehouse and was about to call his brother's name when Anne let out a sudden scream.

"Sam," he said under his breath, about to break into a run when the snake's tail coiled around his ankle and sent him back to the floor. Dean had the wind knocked right out of him, but with the last of his strength, he rolled onto his back and watched in horror as the creature-formerly-known-as-road-kill spluttered and twitched, rising into the air before sprouting another head.

And this one just looked twice as pissed.

"Ah fuck," he spat. "I hate demons."

* * *

**Author's Notes**

It's been two months – I know. And I am truly sorry. By mid-October my workload had practically tripled and I haven't had a day off since at least October 29th. My exam schedule has been thankfully empty, so I finally got the newest chapter out and made a plot summary for how the rest of this story supposed to go and the next one. Thank you so much for the ongoing support! You make Fanfiction my favourite site on the planet. Happy Holidays!


	27. Makes you Paranoid

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six: …Makes You Paranoid

Ten steps away from freedom, Sam came to the sudden realization that their escape had been just a little too easy. Hidden warehouse and demonic serpents were some large hurtles, true, but by Winchester standards, making a run for it without opposition wasn't just easy; it was by the grace of the Lord Almighty. And everyone knew God rarely smiled upon the Winchesters, least of all in the middle of a hunt.

So it was no surprise that, just seconds away from their destination, the door to the warehouse was thrown open, and two shadowy figures advanced through the moonlight, headed straight for them.

Anne shrieked. It was an action so instinctive not even Sam's new found psychic abilities could warn him about it. All he could do was grab her by the forearm, luckily catching her sleeve instead of her flesh, and pull her back into the maze of crates they had just fled. He pushed her into a small crevice, holding a finger to his lips to signal for her to be silent, as he kept low, peeking up occasionally to catch a glimpse of the newcomers.

The figures had maintained their pace all the way into the warehouse, unfazed it seemed, by Sam's presence. They waltzed in like models on a catwalk, hips swaying under their perfectly tailored jackets. He recognized the swagger, the poise, the attitude. _St_. _Mary's_, a strange voice whispered into his ear, and even though he only had a vague conception of where the idea had come from, he agreed with it wholeheartedly.

A chill ran down his spine when they turned to face the crates. The moonlight struck them from the now open warehouse door, gleaming off their powdery white faces and well-conditioned hair. But it wasn't their appearances Sam was concerned with. It was the necklace hanging around their necks, the one bearing his dream pentacle proudly between their breasts.

He lowered back down into the darkness, nearby Anne. She kept her lips pursed shut, fearful that the softest breath might give away their positions. Sam tried to give her a reassuring smile of some kind, but he couldn't manage it. His mind was a flurry of activity, drifting quickly from his nightmares to the visions he had suffered at the hands of Andrea Withers. Sam wasn't sure whether there were too many or too few pieces of the puzzle at his disposal. He felt like he had an entire textbook's worth of information available to him, but the relevant facts of the case were jumbled with all the irrelevant ones, making it very difficult to determine what was what.

_Task at hand, Sam,_ his father's voice reminded him, just as the women started talking.

"Jesus Christ, Lilly, I told you to tie those ropes tighter."

High heels tapped over the cement, pacing impatiently. Sam sneaked around another corner, inching his head around the crate to get a good look at what was happening. There wasn't much to see. Neither woman appeared motivated enough to perform a full scale search of the warehouse. The first, a blonde haired, blue eyed vixen, was moving the most, drifting down to the aisle and back to the middle of the warehouse again. She tapped her foot impatiently on the ground and shot a nasty look at her fried.

"Christabella's going to kill you, you know that right?"

"Oh please," the other rolled her eyes quite visibly, tossing her head sassily. She had short, spiky black hair, and her arms jingled with a multitude of bracelets and bangles. "She hasn't gone anywhere. This place has been locked tight."

"Yeah, locked tight with a massive snake inside," the blonde chuckled. Something about her friend's dilemma amused her sadistically. "How the hell are you going to explain snakey's sudden weight gain and your missing one little girl?"

"She's here," the raven-haired beauty assured her friend and strode forward. "Anne?"

Her voice echoed back into the emptiness. Sam shot a look at the young girl and shook his head, hoping the gesture would get the message across for her not to answer. Anne shrank down to the floor, nodding in response. She knew better than to give away her position, but understood that Sam was just covering all his bases.

The door to the warehouse slammed shut again, forced closed by an invisible force. Sam's head throbbed with psychic activity suddenly, as if both women were using their abilities at the same time. Strong waves of energy drew towards him through the darkness, unseen and unfelt by anyone else but him. Quickly and quietly, he ushered Anne further back, hoping to outrun the women's telepathy long enough to formulate a plan of some kind. There was no such distance though, and Sam found he was fighting a losing battle with time itself.

Moments before they were discovered, his body reacted on pure instinct. He took Anne into his arms, curling his lengthily body around her tiny one, concentrating hard on whatever psychic reserves Andrea had opened up. Senselessness overcame him, and the air around them grew light just as the waves of psychic energy passed by them, flowing straight through them without detection.

There was a tenuous silence. Sam was certain he would hear footsteps in their direction any second, but none came. He loosened his grip on Anne and waited, breathless with anticipation, praying that whatever the hell he had done had worked.

He jerked back in surprise when several loud bangs echoed from the back of the warehouse, followed by an equally thunderous, "TAKE THAT BITCH!"

Sam dropped his head into his hand. _And things were just starting to go so well._

* * *

Dean stared at the crushed snake for the second time that night. _Come on, bitch,_ he thought with a sinister glare, _bring your ass back from the dead again. I dare yah. I double dare yah. I triple dare yah. Hell, I TRIPLE DOG DARE YAH!_

The snake twitched, and he, 'reflexively', brought the wooden beam down on its body once again. From that moment on, the pile of flattened snake didn't move whatsoever, not even to resurrect itself. Just to be sure, though, he heaved one of the heavier crates down off its stack on top of the mashed corpse, fairly certain the weight would keep the body as flat as a freaking pancake for the rest of the night. The scent of death was already drawn to the area, filling Dean's nostrils like battery acid. He rubbed the back of his wrist across his face and took several steps back from the mess.

"Sam?" he asked the darkness, just as he turned…

…And came face-to-face with one unamused female.

And she was gorgeous. Everything a woman should be in Dean's opinion. Tall, blonde, beautiful: one T and two B's that just made sense in the elder Winchester's mind, especially when his blood was still roaring in his ears from the kill.

Too bad she didn't seem to think the same of him though. Before he could utter one syllable, she caught him with a powerful right hook straight across the face, enough to break his nose if he hadn't recoiled at exactly the right moment. Spitting the blood from his lips, Dean stood up, balling his hands into fists.

"You know normally I don't hit girls," he said, tossing his head to the side to get into the mood.

"But, what? You'll make an exception tonight?" she replied sassily.

"Fuck yeah," he said, and knocked her down with one well placed punch to the temple. She had never even seen it coming, he was so fast, and she fell in a crumpled heap to the ground, unconscious.

Dean cast a mournful look in her direction, feeling terrible for hitting something THAT good looking. He shrugged a second later with a nonchalant, "Meh," figuring that after this little rescue mission he deserved to unwind a little, and pick up another beauty just like her at a bar somewhere in Boston. He turned back to the crates and called his brother's name again, searching for any signs of movement.

In that moment, something leapt on him from behind. Dean thought it was the snake at first, but when a pair of finely toned legs wrapped around his waist and another set of boney arms made for his neck, he changed his mind. Grabbing both the limbs now cutting off his air supply, he bucked and grunted against the measly weight on his back. He coughed every manner of death threats, forcing the grip to tighten at his throat and his head to swell with blood. Gritting his teeth, Dean charged backward and knocked the bitch against the wall of the warehouse, forcing his back into her for an extra blow.

Nothing happened. The arms were still gripping his neck and now the person's feet were forcing their way towards his groin.

_Oh, fuck no_, he thought, and threw his attacker into the warehouse wall again. This time, the person gave a high pitched screech, right in Dean's ear, which only served to fuel his anger. He forced her back once more before whipping around and dropping like a rock on top of her.

"BASTARD!" his attacker screamed, her arms loosening involuntarily. Dean kicked himself to his feet, staring down at the frail female form struggling to stand. She was of darker features than her companion, and considerably less attractive, but Dean couldn't help but feel guilty when he knocked her senseless too. Hitting girls cramped his style. He was the hero. He was supposed to get the girl, not knock the stuffing out of her.

"Bitch," he retorted, spitting another mouthful of blood on the floor next to her. He spun back to the crates and took a moment to catch his balance from all the excitement. Slaughtering a snake and taking down two psycho chicks gave him an adrenaline and testosterone rush like nothing else.

The natural buzz from the hormones was interrupted by the stares he was receiving from both Sam and Anne through the shadows. They had appeared, probably upon hearing the sounds of his struggle, and their eyes were now fixed on him. Anne didn't seem to want to know, one way or another, and she clung tightly to Sam's leg fearfully.

Sam's expression was completely blank.

"Women love me," Dean spat another glob of blood to the floor. "Deal with it."

* * *

With both women carefully restrained, bound tightly by Dean's expert hand to one of the metal support beams nearby, Sam pulled one of the pentacles from around their necks and examined it. The silver chain and matching charm was average for all intents and purposes. These women would slip easily below the radar on the streets of Boston, regardless of their jewelry. Pentacles didn't usually spark much controversy those days anyways. 

Flashes of memory sprinkled Sam's senses as he ran his fingers over the necklace. Blood spilled over his dream-brunette's chest, leaving the pentacle gleaming on a sea of crimson. Anne Sullivan's dangled for eternity beneath her thick layers of hair and clothing. Time and space were no longer correlated as his mind was pulled and pushed from one vision to another. The dark haired girl was Lillian Thomas, seventeen years old with a mediocre GPA, lousy in St. Mary's standards. Sam knew, within seconds, that she was the byproduct of a competitive family. Her four older siblings were all overachievers, each one enrolled in Ivy League schools across the country, while she floundered amidst the extraordinary without much of a clue. Her parents disliked her taste in music, had nothing but horrible things to say about her choice of boyfriends, and were nothing but condescending with regards to her future. Reliving a few select moments from his own childhood, Sam had to take a few minutes to regroup before he felt like talking.

Dean groaned. "What the hell did I say about touching shit, Miss Cleo?"

"This is bigger than we thought, Dean," Sam shook his head, holding the pentacle up to his brother. "I think Andrea Withers was right."

"What? About the demonic conspiracy?" the older Winchester gave a nervous laugh.

"Well then how do you explain this, Dean?"

"I don't," he said simply. "We've got other shit to do, Sam. If it's a conspiracy, it'll still be there day after tomorrow."

"People could die, Dean."

"Not our problem," he stood up and dusted off his knees, leaving Sam sulking on the floor. "Now, come on. We've gotta get going."

The younger Winchester took another couple of minutes, searching Lillian's unconscious face for any kind of answers. He knew that arguing with Dean was a lost cause. His older brother was fixated on the demon now more than ever, and with only twenty-four hours to go, he wasn't sure why he wasn't more worried. His family was in the middle of a crisis, so why the hell was he so eager to devote himself to another family's problems?

Rising from the floor, he pocketed the pentacle and headed towards the car.

* * *

"Shocking, isn't it?" 

James pulled her fingers through her hair again, checking every strand to see if she missed any spots. Her thick mane was still damp and the bottom layers were still soaked and knotted messily, but she couldn't see any mistakes. The once platinum blonde mess was now a dark brown colour, almost black from the moisture. It was a vast improvement by comparison though. The blonde had washed her out and looked out of place next to her dark brows and irises. Becoming a brunette had brought out the natural flush in her cheeks, the slender crevice sweeping down her jaw, and the bittersweet chocolate colour of her eyes.

"Shocking is one way to put it," she said, rifling through her many layers of hair once more, paranoid that they had missed a spot.

"Jesus, Jay, would you relax? I got it all," Helena Cormac strode into the bathroom, coming up behind her friend. James couldn't bring herself to smile. She had way too much freaking hair to smile. "Think of it this way – if three boxes of hair dye didn't cover all this, the blonde deserves to stay."

James sighed and straightened out, twisting her back uncomfortably to remove all the kinks in her spine. She felt…splintered, fragmented, and God, useless beyond all reason. Here she was, dyeing her frigging hair, while Anne was out there getting gutted by some sick freaks or molested by some sicker ones. She had tried not thinking about it, but the thoughts of her sister's disappearance consumed her every waking moment. She hadn't slept, had barely eaten, and refused to speak to anyone except Helena since she got dragged back from the forest.

After a particularly nasty fight with Erica, resulting in strict house arrest, Hel had showed up with the perfect afternoon pastime.

"Your cure for my emotional distress is hair dye?" James inquired skeptically, her voice monotone. She really didn't have the strength to even fake an interest in Hel's cheap excuses for girl time.

Her friend, however, formulated the perfect rebuttal. "First thing – it's not just hair dye. It's L'Oreal Preference. This stuff comes with highlights and everything. Second – what the hell else have you got to do?" Hel lowered her voice. "Your stepmother's turned this place into frigging Fort Knox. She's like some 'all-seeing-eye-of-evil' or something."

"I was thinking more like Hitler incarnate, but all-seeing-eye-of-evil's good too," James commented, examining the box more closely. Part of her – a pretty big part – wanted to tell Helena to fuck off, that they had better things to do, but she had already exhausted all her resources. Erica knew all the exits in the house and made sure they were appropriately guarded. Her bedroom window was no good for sneaking out of either. Erica had taken down the oak tree that used to grow right outside of it when it died a year ago. This was all conveniently after James had snuck out for some late night partying while grounded, of course. The smaller part was mildly intrigued by Helena's distraction, and figured she deserved some down time. All work and no play was really making her a dull, melodramatic sort of girl.

So she had humoured Helena, and undergone all hell with this supposed 'Goddess' of all hair dye kits. Her hair going uncared for several days didn't help either. There were knots on every layer, each one bigger, and thicker than the last. Getting them all out was a chore unto itself. And then there was the actual dyeing process itself, something that rivaled deep sea diving through a maze of slick, mismatched locks that never seemed to end.

Now that it was all over and all that was left to do was brush the damn thing out again, James had to admit it was an okay idea, from an aesthetic perspective anyways. An hour and a half had passed without a single phone call from the police, reporters or otherwise. Worse yet, neither her father nor Erica had attempted to communicate with her whatsoever. She had been cut out of the loop, all because she gave into some pseudo-delinquent urges and gotten herself kidnapped in the process. _Hardly my fault_, she ruffled her hair again. _I blame the media_.

"God," Helena shook her head. "To think I used to want your hair."

"Fuck you," James scoffed with an envious glare. Helena was blessed with perfectly straight auburn hair that she didn't even have to brush most days. It fell into shape effortlessly, conditioned and cared for to such a high degree it made James want to scalp her most days. _I could wear her hair as a wig_, she mused, trying to tame her tresses once more before failing miserably. "Damn it all to hell. This is the last time I dye my hair."

Hel laughed. "It comes with conditioner."

"Which doesn't do anything."

"Only because your hair could protect against a nuclear attack."

"Not funny," James snapped, but couldn't help chuckling too.

"I'm gonna go grab the leave in conditioner, okay?" Helena said. "You need any cookies or liquor or…something?"

"No, no, Hel, I'm cool," she replied, trying to hide her exasperation. Now that the excitement of reading Cosmo, having a scalp massage, and binge eating Twinkies had worn off, her guilt was starting up again. Not that Anne was missing out. She barely glanced at magazines of any kind besides _Popular Mechanics_, abhorred physical contact especially on her scalp, and knew too many statistics to ever binge eat anything. That wasn't the point though. Anne didn't have to share James' interests. She didn't have to. Anne was her baby sister. She was her responsibility, even if she was only half of James.

Turning around, James leaned her back against the bathroom counter with a deep breath. Her head fell down to her chest, thoroughly defeated by the situation. What the hell good was she if she couldn't even protect her little sister, at school, no less? It wasn't like Anne was difficult to look out for. As long as one knew their way around a library, they were pretty much set for the task. But no, James couldn't even do that properly. Now she was stuck not knowing, waiting for what had quickly become inevitable in her mind.

She tapped her fingers against the counter top, using her rings to make small tapping noises to the rhythm of 'Under Pressure', nodding her head rhythmically in order to keep her cool. Freddie Mercury and David Bowie seemed to be staving off the rising waves of her own inferiority complex for the time being, at least enough that she could face her image in the mirror again.

James gasped and recoiled, holding a hand to her face as if to block out what she saw. The mirror had fogged up again, despite having been clear when she turned around. Now, she could scarcely make out her reflection, save for where someone had wiped the condensation away in the shape of a large pentacle on her bathroom mirror.

"No," she whispered, still trying to recover from the shock. Her anxiety transformed in an instant to anger, and in her fury, she began wiping the pentacle away frantically with both her hands. But with every stroke, the pentacle returned twice as clear as before. James backed away from the mirror, gloves soaked through to her palms. Every second she watched, the pentacle redrew itself, adding new parts, new sigils, finally finishing itself off with a ring surrounding the points.

_"Your sister is in hell_," Andrea's voice echoed in her head maniacally. _"And you will join her soon enough."_

"Jay?"

James whipped around, hyperventilating. Helena stood in the doorway.

"Your dad and Hitler headed to the office for a bit," she said. "They left us some money for Chinese in the…" Hel finally clued in to James' hysteria. "Babe…you okay?"

"I uh…" James' throat went dry. She looked back at the mirror, breath hitching in her throat uncomfortably when she found it untouched, just as it had been minutes before. She spun back to Helena. "Chinese sounds great, Hel. I'll get right on that."

"They're gonna find her, Jay," Helena said softly, trying to comfort her friend.

"They better," James replied, watching her reflection in the mirror sadly. "They better."

* * *

The car was ridiculously quiet. It was painful. And Sam wasn't helping with his totalitarian control over the car's radio. The second Dean even thought about reaching for it, his hand was on the control, preventing him from turning the volume much above a whisper. "Angus Young does not belong on a volume of two." 

Anne suddenly giggled from the backseat.

"You find that funny?" Dean asked. Anne mumbled something under her breath. "What?"

"You sound like my sister," she repeated, issuing a small chuckle from Sam.

"And you call me a girl," he said.

"Shut up," Dean snapped. "Your sister listens to AC/DC?"

Now, he was interested.

"Sometimes," Anne shrugged. "Sometimes it's Zeppelin, Queen, Metallica, Bowie…"

"Really?" _Very interesting_.

"Yep," she nodded. "Personally I think she's psycho."

Sam smirked and Dean's eyes narrowed. "Yeah well I think…"

His younger brother jabbed him in the ribs to keep him in line.

Anne laughed again, one so juvenile she actually got Sam smiling too. Dean, however, didn't look too impressed and kept on glowering.

"So what do I tell people when I get home?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" Dean inquired.

"I mean about this. I assume you don't want me to tell people you saved me from a giant snake and two St. Mary's girls."

"What were those girls doing with you anyways?" the older Winchester threw the question over his shoulder a little more gruffly than he tried to. He knew Sam was better at the whole 'consoling the victim' thing, but he never expected to sound so demanding.

"They never spoke to me," Anne said softly, playing with her thumbs in her lap. "They came and went whenever they wanted to. That snake of theirs kept watch. It wasn't until I broke free that it attacked me."

"Did they mention anything about your sister?" Sam asked, receiving a strange look from Dean. He ignored it, focusing on Anne.

"No," she shook her head.

"Did they say anything out of the ordinary? Anything at all?"

She thought about the question for a moment, considering all that had happened in the past few days. "They mentioned Christabella's name a lot. And they talked about tomorrow night quite a bit too. Something really important is supposed to be happening."

That caught both Winchesters' attention. They caught each other's stare, each able to read what the other was saying without saying a word.

Anne caught on immediately.

"What?" she asked fearfully.

"Nothing," Sam said softly, looking over his shoulder reassuringly. Anne didn't buy his complacency for a second. The look in her eyes told him so. She looked just as worried as she had a second ago. "Can you remember anything else? Anything at all."

"That's all," she said. "They really didn't say a lot."

But to the Winchesters, they had said plenty.

* * *

"I'm the last one on the lane," Anne said, leaning forward in her seat as they drove closer to her house. Trust the Sullivan house to be in one of the nicest residential areas in Boston. Nestled amidst the well-tended greenery, perfectly trimmed hedges, cast iron gates, and several-thousand dollars worth of home security systems was Anne Sullivan's private castle. The lots were sparse given the size of the area, but the homes were huge, each one custom-made to fit the homeowner's preferences. Sam could only gulp as they cruised slowly through the neighbourhood, involuntarily pondering just how much one of the homes might cost. 

"Martha Stewart much?" Dean commented. It was a small comfort to the younger Winchester to know that his brother was suffering from the same speechlessness as he was. The neighbourhood transcended criticism in all its decadent glory. The Sullivan family was living the life the rest of the world could only dream about.

Anne was getting giddy despite her best intentions to remain indifferent. Sam could hear her heart race in his ears as her thoughts spiraled across his brain. Her memories grew fresh in his mind's eye and voices drifted louder and louder inside of his skull.

He took a deep breath and focused. Five more minutes and he and Dean could silently celebrate their heroics before starting on the next hunt. Five more minutes till they could get back to the task at hand, no matter how strongly Sam felt about investigating St. Mary's, now more than ever.

Dean deliberately bypassed Anne's driveway, taking a moment to survey her driveway and house. One car sat idle in the driveway while lights decorated the windows of what he hoped would be a deserted manor. Even though the road was partially hidden by the hedges surrounding the driveway, Dean was still paranoid. He killed the lights, just to be safe.

"Looks like your folks are home, kid," he said.

"No," Anne said sadly, sliding over the seat to the opposite door. "Their car's gone. Probably just James."

Sam resisted the urge to slam his head against the window. The last thing he needed was Anne dropping inadvertent hints for Dean to come flirt with her sister. And Lord knows he would. No matter how hell bent he was on finding the demon, Dean couldn't resist hero worship of even the smallest kind.

"Well, you're on your own to the front door," Dean told her.

The younger Winchester could have died. Dean? Passing up the urge to score with someone? This would live in infamy.

"You got the story straight?" the older Winchester clarified, just to be sure.

"I didn't see my kidnappers, got held up in some random warehouse, managed to escape and get home," she said with a nod. "A couple of fake tears and some memory loss...no problem."

Dean was impressed, "Good girl."

Anne reached for the door handle, almost ready to head out when she hesitated. She swallowed hard and looked back at the two brothers.

"Ah, thanks," she said awkwardly, lowering her eyes back down to the floor of the car before lifting her gaze again. "Thank you for saving my life."

"No problem," Dean said. "Just keep us on the down-low, okay sweetheart?"

She smiled and nodded before heading out the door to the house.

"Cute kid," the older Winchester commented candidly as he drove down to the crescent at the end of the lane. He took the corners quietly, eyeing each house like a predator as they pressed onward. Sam just shot his brother a questioning look, trying to lighten the mood.

"You hate kids," he said, cocking his brow in a most amused fashion.

"I don't hate kids," Dean scoffed.

"Oh, right, I'm sorry. You love kids, don't you…?"

Sam stopped short, the words catching in his throat.

"Stop the car," he ordered suddenly.

"We're right in front of the…"

"Stop the car, Dean!" Sam shouted franticly, dropping a hand down on his brother's arm to make him stop. Dean grit his teeth angrily, but obeyed his brother's wishes anyways, coming to a sudden halt right in front of the Sullivan's driveway.

Right where Anne was currently being greeted by her sister.

Right in front of freaking eyeshot.

"What the hell, Sam?" the older Winchester asked, but never got an answer. Sam was actually getting out of the car. "Sam!" he hissed, still not getting a response. His younger, idiot brother had already opened the door was now standing in broad-freaking-daylight (so to speak) and staring like a lovesick puppy at the Sullivan family reunion.

Fuck.

Sam gripped the door for support, his sudden shock making him both disoriented and nauseated. He felt like he had been punched in the gut as he stared at the front of the Sullivan's house, eyes drifting from the manor to the image of James with her sister. Even in the darkness, the light from the house was enough to tell that her hair was much darker than it had been before. Why and how weren't important. What was were the details. He knew the house. He knew the hair. He knew. This wasn't just some garden variety déjà vu he was experiencing. This was real, live, "I've been here before," sort of shit.

It was the house from his dream, and James Sullivan was his leading lady.

* * *

Author's Notes: 

There's quite a bit of James in this chapter. She just kind of…came out. I kind of figured it was about time. She's been blissfully absent for the past little while and now her sister's been returned (all hail the beautiful Winchester boys! Sam's hair-grope-fest and Dean hurt/comfort/angst for everyone!). I realize the hair dye story was a bit of a weak plot point, but nothing – and I mean nothing – makes me feel better than a scalp massage and Twinkies. Hair dye's an added bonus.

The psychics at Northern Industries were, unfortunately, expendable and neither of the Winchesters would have stuck around to interrogate them. Not with them being psychics, and certainly not with twenty-four hours between them and the demon. This also prevented the scene with Anne to be drawn out, and why Dean turned down the chance to bask in the heroic glory of James' kid sister's return. Maybe later. Poor guy could use a little action. Sam seems to be getting all the attention these days.

I would like to thank all the reviewers, as well. Last chapter was the highest reviewed yet! It was incredible and it really made my holidays! I hope everyone had a great December and I can't wait to hear from all of you again!


	28. Behind Closed Doors

Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story pertaining to the television series _Supernatural_ are the property of CW and its affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Behind Closed Doors

Sam tried to focus his thoughts on one particular goal, but couldn't find a suitable starting point for his efforts. The vision passed through his mind again and again, filling him with the same helplessness and dread it had for the past two weeks it had plagued him. Fate, it seemed, had a funny way of showing itself to him. The more he unraveled the mysteries of his existence, the more cluttered they became, almost as if the forces of the universe didn't want him to ever decode the puzzle, at least, not until it was too late for anything to be done about it.

He silently berated himself for not having linked her to his visions in the first place. James Sullivan had stood a mere three feet in front of him, stared directly into his eyes, and he never once thought that she might have a connection to all this. With all he had seen, done, and concluded about his abilities, he should have guessed that he shared some kind of bond with her. Their mothers had, presumably, met the exact same end as one another in much the same manner. Not to mention her arsenal of psychic power, a common trigger for his freakish nightmares and visions whether the subject was telekinetic or not. After Max Miller, it was safe to assume that any and all of the demon's chosen children were bound to reap havoc on his overly sensitive abilities. Andrea Withers opening all his psychic floodgates should have been reason enough for him to suspect that some, if not all of his visions were directly related back to her.

Pacing the length of the motel room for the umpteenth time that night, Sam pondered one connection after another as he tried to fit the overly confusing puzzle together in an even vaguely coherent way. James Sullivan, his scantly clad dream girl, was going to be killed, in her home, by two guys with some kind of vendetta. He knew for certain it happened at night, during a horrible rainstorm, and that for the most part, she was home alone. No matter how uncertain he was of when it would happen, his instincts told him that it was coming soon, although it could just be his overwhelming sense of paranoia at the time. He was impatient and flustered, itching to take action against the inevitable.

"We have to do something," he said.

Dean rolled his eyes. If Sam had said it once, he'd said it a thousand times. "What the hell are we supposed to do?" he demanded. "Call her up? Sorry to bother you, but you're gonna get murdered? Have you even thought of how crazy that sounds, Sam?"

"People are going to kill her, Dean!"

"I get that, Sam. Jesus, I get it. I just don't know what the hell we can do about that right now."

"We could warn her? Hell, we could have done anything except driven away."

"And what? Wait around for her parents to come home?" Dean scoffed. "I would _love_ to hear your explanation for that."

"She needs to know about this, Dean, about what's happening. She's one of these children, one of the demon's chosen. I'd say that kind of transcends explanation, wouldn't you?"

"Did you actually just use 'transcends' in casual conversation?"

The younger Winchester stopped dead in his tracks and shot his brother a most unamused glare. "Stop changing the subject."

"Look, Sammy…"

"It's Sam."

Dean ignored him. "The case is done. Finished. We rescued the girl, killed the thing that took her, and now we've got more pressing shit to deal with! In less than twenty-four hours, the yellow-eyed demon's coming back to finish off someone else's mother and I would personally like to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Look, I get it, okay? I get that this hunt is important."

"Do you, Sam? Because I don't think you do, considering all you've wanted to since we got here is investigate Catholic school girls."

"And you think there's a problem with that?" Sam raised a brow. "We just got ambushed by a giant, regenerative snake. Not to mention the homicidal psychic in the forest and the other homicidal psychics at the warehouse; all of whom implicated that Catholic school as a demonic headquarters right here in Boston."

"Alright, so there something is going on, okay?" Dean snapped. "But that doesn't mean we drop everything to look into it! Right now there's only one thing I care about, and that's getting the thing that killed mom!"

"She deserves to know, Dean!"

"Fine. Call her up. But from now on, we're only focusing on the yellow-eyed bastard."

"Dean…"

"End of story, Sam!" the older Winchester spat, tossing the duffel bag to the floor angrily. He swore his younger brother was pouting now, the fighting spirit knocked out from under him by his brother's cynicism. Dean, though, didn't really see why the kid was getting so upset anyways. From what he knew about his brother's visions, it was raining when this woman – James or otherwise – was killed. That night, the sky was clear, and Dean had better things to deal with. The call of his family's duty was too loud to be ignored this time, and unless a freak rain storm popped out of nowhere within the next few hours, he was going to have a Sullivan-free night with only the demon to worry about.

The younger Winchester dropped onto his bed, dropping his head to his chest for a moment in order to calm his racing heart. This situation couldn't be more infuriating if James were actually dying. It was clear that Dean wasn't going to listen to him anymore. And he could see why. In less than twenty-four hours this lifelong hunt that they had been on could be over. They could avenge their Jess, their mother, and the mothers of all the children the bastard had killed over the years. The war they had been so unwillingly dragged into as children would finally be over. He could go back to Law school and start over, leaving Dean to do God-knows-what with all his free time. The elder hunter might even think about settling down himself instead of just joking about it all the time.

But Sam couldn't shake the sense of duty that came with every single one of his visions. Every time he saw a person die he formed an immediate pact with them. The urge to protect was overwhelming, and he understood it as a way to make amends at last for those he had failed to protect before – like Max. Like Jess.

_Jess_.

He turned his head to look at Dean, translating all his anger into a scowl that went unnoticed by the elder Winchester. He was too busy procuring his precious hunting knife from the duffel to be shoved under the pillow for an unnecessary amount of protection. Sam watched him with rage filled eyes, trying and failing to justify his brother's callousness.

Well, that was until he saw the knife his brother was holding. Then his expression softened and his eyes cleared as a rush of déjà vu ran through him for the second time that knife.

"Dean…"

"I'm serious, Sam," his brother said irritably.

"No, Dean," he stood from the bed and walked over. "Let me see that for a sec."

The older Winchester cocked a brow, looking up at the looming form of his brother skeptically before offering up the knife. He figured Sammy wasn't looking to pick a fight by mocking his cautious behaviour. In fact, the kid wasn't really looking. His eyes drifted over the blade and then through it, pondering the weapon's secrets in absolute, chilling silence.

"What?" Dean asked, but received no response. Sam lifted his gaze, still off in his own little world.

_"I didn't do it,_" James's voice begged him desperately in the vision. _"I swear to God_."

A hand gripped her hair so tightly he could hear her scalp tearing underneath. She stared madly into her attackers' eyes begging them with her mind to please, please let her go. The muscles in her face tightened suddenly though, as a knife was suddenly brought into view, rising out of the darkness to the foreground, suspended in the white-knuckled grip of her future killer.

Sam's heart nearly jumped out of his chest when he saw it. Floating in his mind's eye, hovering mere inches from James Sullivan's throat was his brother's hunting knife.

His sinuses exploded with pain, but Sam was too busy considering the implications of this new vision to be concerned with pain. He watched as his point of reference changed, and his psychic world spun on the crossguard of the knife to face the killer in the eyes.

A cold shiver ran down his spine as he stared at his own face through the darkness, just before it was splattered with blood.

* * *

Dean hated silence. He made a mental note to personally kill any and all Supreme Deities who decreed that sound should, for some reason, stop. Sound was good. Sound was dandy. Sound was life. Sound kept Sam from staring dejectedly at the floor, feeling like absolute crap. 

He knew he had been saying it a lot lately, but this really was the last thing he needed. Psycho-homicidal-psychics? Stepping stones. Regenerating snake demons? Mild irritations. Sammy finding out he might be a murderer? Perfect. Just fucking perfect. Dean could take care of all the killer psychics and snake demons. He couldn't kill Sam's guilty conscience. Lord knows, he had tried. After Jess's death and Max's leap to the dark side, he, being the awesome big brother that he was, had done everything within his power to get the kid back on his feet. But for some reason, moments like these showed up and taught Dean two things: one – Sam wasn't back on his feet. Far from it. He hadn't gotten back on his feet since Jess got killed. And two – he really was just over-compensating with all the 'awesome big brother' bullshit. With all the demon hunting – _or lack thereof_, he thought with a groan, child rescuing, and magically blossoming psychic abilities, he hadn't really focused on his baby brother's wellbeing, least of all when it came to the comparisons developing between Sam and the rest of the killer psychics they had met. Good big brothers wouldn't have allowed Andrea Withers to scramble all his brother's brain cells both normal and abnormal. Hell, just because he was on the subject, why not go back to the beginning? Good big brothers didn't drag their baby brothers around the country on a road trip from hell just because he wanted to reclaim some idea of family.

"Stop blaming yourself," Sam muttered. His brother's guilty conscience was like a chainsaw against his skull, one he really didn't need. The recent visions had been damn near crippling compared to the others. His entire body was wrecked with shivers, ones he had to hide by curling up into a verifiable ball and holding himself tightly. Dean was shocked by Sam's attempt at discretion and if the situation were different, it might also be laughable. The more the kid tried to hide his discomfort, the more it seemed to show. Especially since Sam was convulsing under a sweatshirt in a room that was almost eighty degrees.

"Get out of my head, psychic boy," Dean retorted, unable to think of anything else to say. Something told him, "Well, at least you know when James is gonna die now," was definitely _not_ the thing to say. He settled for a, "You can't blame yourself for this, Sam. You haven't done anything yet."

"But I'm going to do it," the younger Winchester admitted quietly.

"You barely know the girl, Sam! You were severely concussed when you met her. And now suddenly, you're convinced that you're gonna kill her all because some freaky vision said so?"

"When have my visions ever been wrong, Dean?" Sam's anger was boiling to the surface. Dean could feel the frustration coming off of him in shaky waves, a bit disconcerting given his brother's deteriorating physical condition. "This is coming, I mean…I am going to kill someone. I'm going to…"

_Be sick?_ Dean wanted to suggest. The colour had just drained from Sam's face so suddenly he thought maybe the kid was having a fit. His baby brother swallowed hard and furrowed his brow, suddenly very disoriented.

The younger Winchester's body slumped forward, torso propped up on shaking limbs. He closed his eyes tightly against the cold onslaught of reality and was left with only the darkness of his thoughts where giant, fluorescent letters burned, "You're a murderer," into his psyche. His guilty conscience snowballed and overtook his shuddering form with ease as he focused all his thoughts onto that singular image of his own blood spattered face and the knife in his hand.

_Why Sam?_

Jessica's accusing tone sent shivers down his spine, and knocked him out of his reverie. When he finally opened his eyes, Dean was standing right in front of him, one hand on Sam's shoulder while the other tugged back the covers on the bed.

"Bedtime, Sammy," Dean said.

"Dean..." the younger man interjected impatiently. "I can't just…"

"Yeah you can," his older brother assured him.

"I'm going to kill her, Dean."

"Not on my watch," the pressure on his shoulder increased until Sam started to fall to the side. His overtaxed body keeled quickly under the touch, and before he could voice even a moan of protest, Dean had him lying flat on the bed with his legs soon to follow.

The change of altitude was nice, comforting even. Sam's eyelids drooped and his arms shot up and around the pillow reflexively, hugging it hard against his body in a last stand against the brutal unfairness of his condition. He should be stronger than this. What good were powers when you couldn't even use them to help people?

Dean pulled the blankets over his brother a laid a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. "Go to sleep, Sammy," he urged desperately.

Sam didn't even bother questioning the order or the nickname. He was already asleep by the time Dean took away his hand and retreated back to the opposite bed.

* * *

There was a knock on the door. 

Dean jerked out slumber, lifting his head off the pillow with a strange expression. The muscles in his face had stopped working as he slept, leaving certain ones in a permanent grimace and others relaxed. Running hand over his cheek, he eased himself up and off the bed, scanning the room instinctively to make sure everything was as he left it. Sure enough, his father's journal and several papers were scattered over the bed, while the laptop remained open to a screensaver on the opposite side of the bed. Sam was still sleeping off his most recent bought of angst without any interruptions – which was strange, admittedly, but Dean wasn't going to punch the gift horse in the mouth. The kid would need his sleep for tonight.

His train of thought was broken by another series of knocks on the door, this time louder. _It had better not be the manager_, he thought. _I paid that sonofabitch till the end of the week._

Taking the knife out from under his pillow, Dean walked over to the door, keeping as quiet as he could. Sliding up to the peephole, he peered out, expecting to find the manager or worse waiting for him.

Instead, he sighed, flicked open the chain lock, and opened the door.

"We need to talk," James said.

Dean groaned audibly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Hmmm…you came to my house last night coincidentally just as my kidnapped sister's returned home. Now what in God's name could I be doing outside your motel room the following morning?"

"You could be showing your gratitude," he suggested wolfishly.

Oh, if looks could kill. James glowered irritably, not in the mood for any sort of sarcasm besides her own. "Who the hell are you two? Seriously. Because you're not cops and you're certainly not two stupid kids target shooting on private property."

"You know that for a fact?" Dean suggested.

"Do I have to? I think it's pretty obvious," she stated simply, crossing her arms for extra effect. "Do you save little girls for a living or is it just some freakish hobby of yours?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it a living. Course I wouldn't call it a hobby neither."

"So what is it then? A passing fancy? Just something you're trying out?"

"Why? Are you impressed?"

That caught her off-guard, and it was beautiful. James' cheeks flushed with the most subtle of blushes, one you could only see standing as close to her as Dean was. The morning sunlight struck the side of her face and there it was: this sweep of pink over her cheek. And even though it was gone in a second, he absorbed the glory of making her blood warm in any way, shape or form.

"You saved my sister," she said, her voice growing quiet as the conversation took a more personal turn, "And then you just leave. You don't wait around to reap the rewards: you just disappear again, like it never happened. No one is that thankless unless they don't want to be found."

"Wow," Dean said. "That's deep. I need to get that embroidered on a pillow."

"Does anything other than bullshit ever come out of your mouth?"

"You want to find out?"

She rolled her eyes and scoffed, but Dean could tell that she was entertaining the notion – or maybe that was just his ego talking. "Look," he began, "Sweetheart..."

"James," she corrected him, but he ignored her.

"Your sister's home. She's safe, she's alive, all that good stuff. Go home and be with her, okay?"

"Wow," she smiled and nodded. "That was inspiring. You should give motivational speaking a try after this whole 'Private Investigator' phase dies out."

Dean's whole body went into a state of permanent chemical reaction. On one level it was sickening. The swirling hormones racing around his system left him vaguely nauseous. Not to mention the inappropriate timing of this little infatuation. He had a brother to help and a demon to kill. But that didn't stop him from imagining what he could do to James with ten minutes and a dark room.

He opened his mouth to get rid of her, when James went suddenly rigid. She glanced over her shoulder fearfully, scanning one end of the street and the other when her eyes came to fall upon a single jet black car that had only just pulled around the corner.

"Shit," she cursed, and pushed her way into the motel room, past Dean.

"What the…?" he began, but never got the chance to finish.

"Close the door," James told him, and when he didn't do it immediately, she ripped off one of her gloves. The door slammed shut pretty quickly after that.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, but didn't receive an answer. James was too busy peering through a thin crack in the curtains, eyeing the black car cautiously as it made its way down the street.

When it was out of sight, she breathed a sigh of relief and turned back around to face him. Dean seemed to tower over her suddenly, and she didn't blame him, considering she had just invaded his personal space rather unceremoniously. She tried to look impassive on the whole issue, but only managed to look uncomfortable with their proximity.

She opened her mouth to say something when the figure on the bed moved. Her eyes drifted over Dean's shoulder to the elongated figure fighting its way out from under the blankets, and her curiosity called the elder Winchester's eyes to the same sight.

"Sammy?" he asked.

"It's Sam," his baby brother replied, pushing the rest of the blankets from him and directing his line of vision to his brother's voice. He cocked a brow in confusion when he found that he and Dean weren't alone.

"You guys want some privacy or something?" he asked the two of them. A pair of stern glares was his only answer.

* * *

Sam Winchester stared at his reflection long and hard in the bathroom mirror, trying to figure out whether he was kidding himself or not. He blinked once and decided yes, he was. The circumstances were dire, the stakes were high, and he had deluded himself into a false sense of security. He was no more equipped to handle James' murder than he was to actually murder her. A second blink signaled 'no' in his mind, and gave him mild comfort. He wasn't kidding himself. He was strong enough to hold back his own darkness, and even if he wasn't, Dean was always there to help. 

_You can't keep depending on him_, Sam told himself. After all, there were two people in the vision, and Sam was willing to bet lives that second individual was Dean, watching from the sidelines as his baby brother who he had sworn to protect became a murderer.

His stomach churned sickeningly as he was torn between the two sides of his conscience. On the one hand, he knew he wasn't kidding himself: Dean protected him. He always had, he always would. There was no question about it, not when the elder man pitted himself between Sam and the dangers of the world with no care or concern for his own existence. Yet a chilling notion tugged at Sam's senses as he watched himself in the mirror, one that he knew he didn't have the strength to face alone, but didn't see any other choice in the matter. Dean couldn't protect him from his destiny and if the demon was right, this was his destiny: to be a killer; a cold hearted killer.

"Hey," Dean knocked twice on the slightly ajar door before slumping against the frame. "You feeling better, college boy?"

"What is she doing here, Dean?" Sam asked.

"Dude, it's me. Why do you think she's here?" his little brother's flat expression got even flatter, if that were possible. Dean lowered his voice. "I don't know bro. She just showed up here."

"Well how did she find us? Did she say?"

"Why the hell does it matter, Sam? She found us, end of story. Now, she's going to have to un-find us so we can get back to work."

Sam peeked out the bathroom door. James was seated calmly at their dining table, head balanced in her hand as she waited out the brothers' quiet conversation. Her eyes darted to Sam's for a split second and would have lingered if the younger Winchester hadn't gotten self-conscious and drifted back into the bathroom.

"I think this involves her, Dean."

"I think you want this to involve her," Dean said, surprised of his brother's sudden change in mood. "Back off, college boy, I saw her first."

"No, that's not it," Sam beseeched him. He knew Dean was just kidding…kind of. "I think she's got more to do with the Order…"

"Oh, Jesus, Sam – not again."

"No, seriously, Dean! I think these women are involved in the same war we are, maybe even more so. The demon said he had plans for us. Maybe these are part of his plans?"

"What? A Catholic School, Sam?"

"It would be the perfect cover!"

Dean pushed his way into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. "This is crazy, Sam!"

"Listen to me, Dean…"

"No, you listen," he snapped. "This demon is the only thing I care about! It's all I've been caring about since mom died! And tonight…" Dean choked on his words. He couldn't breathe. The walls of the bathroom were crushing him, tightening as time ticked closer and closer to the Winchester family's private eleventh hour. Balling his hands into fists, making sure the nails dug into his palms, he dragged himself away from the apprehension and finished speaking. "I'm not going to let this bastard kill anybody else, Sam. This ends tonight."

Sam maintained composure, even though his brother's words had hurt him. Underneath Dean's determination lay an unspoken fear he tried his hardest to hide, one that cut his brother deeply because it questioned even his dedication to the cause. He had been raised to believe that the yellow-eyed demon was all that mattered. It was the only reason the Winchester men breathed. Perhaps it was the fact that he had never met Mary Winchester or maybe he was just as his father had said he was - selfish to the core. Either way, Sam couldn't agree with Dean. Yes, the demon had consumed his every thought from birth, but only because the image had been drilled into his head from day one. Sam hated to admit it, but deep down he couldn't understand his father and his brother's obsession with killing the thing, especially when there were other lives on the line.

"I want to kill this thing as much as you do, Dean," he said calmly, "But there are other lives at stake here and I can't abandon that; not with what my destiny is."

His older brother sighed. "So that's what this is about? You really think you're gonna go evil, Sam? That all this demon wants is for you to take down one of your own kind?"  
"I didn't say that…"

"You're thinking it," the elder man stated with a groan. "Jesus, Sam, if this demon wanted you to kill her, why didn't it get you to do it before? You had plenty of opportunities to do it back at the Withers' place."

"There's something about that night, Dean, the night when it actually happens. I don't know," Sam's eyes went unfocused and hazy as he thought hard on the vision itself. The fragments of his dreams streamed out of order, like grains of sand through his tightening grasp, unable to be formulated in any coherent order. "Something happened…is going to happen that gives me motive…I think…"

Dean looked even less convinced of Sam's argument than he had before the kid had tried to defend it. He crossed his arms, cocked a brow, considered tearing his baby brother's theory to shreds one more time before opting not to. Sam had taken enough of a beating and even someone as relentlessly guilty as him had to understand that what he was saying was ludicrous on some level. The older Winchester got off the offensive and took a moment to relax.

"We gotta get to that hospital," he commented.

"Dean, we've got plenty of time."

"What the hell clock are you living on, college boy? We have no time."

"Dean," the younger man repeated, more forcefully this time. "All I need to do is…"

"Oh hell no, Miss Cleo. No way in hell you're touching anything else."

His baby brother groaned and Dean held up a warning finger. "No."

"Dean…"

"No!"

"You're so immature."

"Immature? Yes. Letting you touch shit? No fucking way," Dean slumped back against the wall, satisfied that he had won the argument. Sam shot him a dirty look, about to shoot down his point of view with some kind of polysyllabic rebuttal when they were interrupted.

"You do realize that the walls aren't that thick, right guys?"

The two shared a look, eyes going wide. Both had forgotten about their third wheel once the door closed, assuming that the bathroom would block out their voices. They hadn't been speaking very loudly to begin with.

When the initial shock of James' involvement wore off, they made their way to the door and opened it, shooting disbelieving stares in her direction. She put on a sugar-sweet smile and waved to them from the table, eyes glinting with the words, "I know absolutely everything you idiots just said."

"How about you guys come out of the bathroom now?" she said, her smile fading.

* * *

Author's Notes: OH YEAH! Three weeks! This is a bit of a celebration for me. I haven't updated this story in anything less than a month since October, and now I've gotten this finished in three weeks. 

The storyline is getting very thick. I realize that. And I apologize, considering most of the answers won't be coming for a bit. But I hope you'll all stick around for it! I know I'll still be here. A little redundant for me to point that out, methinks. See you next installment! Have an awesome day!


End file.
